183. [BOLERO] Duskpool

The trio pulled into Duskpool with just under an hour to spare.

Along the way, they'd passed through a diorama of changing sceneries. Lifeless forest, sandy desert, abandoned villages, and finally the docklands: a graveyard of long-forgotten skiffs, schooners, and tugboats from which the Cormorant itself had once been resurrected. Here and under the obstinate shadow of a brick bridge, Oriole announced their next move, all while camouflaging his boat with tarp, ropes, and more loose junk.

"Do keep to the shadows and your noise to a minimum. Want to avoid being spotted near the docks if at all possible. Oh, and please remember not to—"

"—mention your interdimensional tryst to any of the locals, yeah yeah," Zacarias said with open mockery, though he did suppress his volume as asked. "You've got a reputation to maintain, and it'll be hard to do that when everyone realizes you're pining after a phantom deer lady. I get it, we've all been there."

Oriole opened his fanged mouth to argue, then closed it again in short order. He must've squeezed his brain cell to work out not only that Zacarias was joking, but also that he was sort of right.

"Right," Brain Cell muttered, slightly miffed, "let's hurry. We've got to find safe shelter for the two of you before the end of the cycle."

The trio climbed out of the docks via a set of crumbling stairs made slick with moss and grime. The path led directly into the aforementioned bridge, presently deserted and unlit, which reached across a prominent bend in the Sanzu. Activity was evident on the other side of the bridge, both in the roaring lights of oil-lit streetlamps as well as the noise emanating from a large, blocky building crowned by a row of smokestacks.

So… this is Duskpool. Zacarias, normally indifferent to the tourism aspect of Wayfaring, nevertheless took in the sights and sounds with more than passing curiosity. He was impressed by the size of the city, apparent even from a small sample and vaguely reminiscent of the bustling metropolis of Manesfera. More than that, he wrestled with a nagging sense of familiarity. Where have I seen this before? Or at least a place a lot like it?

Oriole eventually led the outrealmers into the back of the chimneyed building. Then through a series of dusty hallways, lined on one side by glass windows in various states of disrepair, until the whole thing opened up into the enormous 'main floor' of a factory.

Here, everything finally clicked for Zacarias; he'd found the source of that nagging familiarity. The spacious room was shared by several scores of Tiryagas—cat people just like Oriole—gathered around a large, smoky bonfire. Pockets of conversation with soup bowls and drink bottles in hand reminded Zacarias of his 'late night partying' days. In this case, however, the sights rather than the sounds proved to be the clincher.

"Oi, Ori!" A Tiryaga man with an unsteady gait raised a near-empty glass bottle in exuberant greeting. "Ain't seen yer ugly mug in yonks! Where ya been, then?" The man's bloodshot eyes widened as they took in the very strange strangers who flanked 'Ori'. He added, much quieter, "Blimey, what's all this, then? Y—you gonna introduce us to the gent and… l—lady?"

Putting aside his triangular ears, needle-fine whiskers, and cinnamon-colored fur, the speaker dressed in a manner that was very much familiar to Zacarias and his Manesferan education. Collared shirt, suspenders, and wool trousers, all tied together by a moth-eaten waistcoat. He even sported a felt top hat—its rims bent just so to let his cat ears poke out comfortably.

Holy shit, Zacarias marveled inwardly, these guys are straight out of Época Victoriana! Zacarias had seen his fair share of Tidereigners, but they'd all been Mrigas dressed in their stuffy religious robes or else assimilated into Manesferan fashion. This was his first look at Tiryaga culture, which by all appearances maintained the pattern of historical progression in the three Lowly Realms.

If Naraka was a prehistoric wasteland, Pretjord was something like the Middle Ages. Sure, they both had their oddities here and there—modern solutions to specific problems—but the pattern more or less held. Here, judging by the fashion and the architecture—and the fact we'd traveled up the river on a steamboat—I'd say Tidereign is in the midst of an Industrial Revolution.

Or… judging by the decay that colored nearly everything here, perhaps it was more accurate to say the 'Revolution' had already come and gone, leaving the Night-siders with nothing but the ruins of a once industrious civilization.

Zacarias himself wasn't much of a historian. But he, like all sentient souls on Mount Meru, was perceptive to that undefinable yet persistent call from the beyond. Echoes of the Mundane—from the past, the future, or something else entirely outside of time? Who could say?

In this Ksana, however, Zacarias was firmly rooted to the present, right here on the main floor of a decommissioned factory where cat-faced strangers gawked at his and Renna's alien features. The feeling is mutual, my feline friends. But now wasn't the time for cultural exchange, not with Tidereign's sun ever looming beyond the skyveils.

"Loosestrife," Oriole the ginger greeted his cinnamon friend, starting to sound as stressed as he'd been on the first Night. "I will introduce them, all in due time. ToMorrow, perhaps. But right now, we're pressed for time, as you could imagine. I've only come to ask if you've seen Gladiolus toNight. Is he in town?"

Loosestrife the drunkard gave Oriole a blank look. He then nodded in gradual understanding.

"Oh. So you haven't heard? There's been another spate of breaches just the other Night. Some of Feverfew's boys were involved… so you best tread lightly around the old girl, ya hear? But to answer yer question, yes, Doc is in town. He should still be at the morgue, seeing to the bodies and what have you."

Oriole fell silent for a second, face darkening as he received the news. As for Zacarias, he needed very little context to feel just a prick of sympathy for his local guide.

"I understand," Oriole said, voice tight with emotion, "and thank you. I'll be seeing you."

The tabbycat took off again without another word. Zacarias and Renna followed close behind. Loosestrife took a swig of his bottle by way of farewell, bloodshot eyes trained on the outrealmers all the while.

The next leg of their trek first took them within smelling range of the bonfire. Despite having been freed from [Hunger]'s yoke, Zacarias's mouth watered at the scent of long-simmering stew. He glanced at Bubblegum, whose tree-frog throat bobbed with swallowed cravings, even as she kept her mellow, wide-set eyes pointed on the road.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Oriole led them out of the factory and onto lamp-lit streets of cobblestone. These too were more or less deserted, perhaps due to the 'lateness' of the hour, strange as it was to say so about a four-hour cycle. Regardless, the trio enjoyed a brisk walk, free from gawking eyes and uninterrupted by—

"Oi, Ori!"

Well, that didn't last long. The second solicitor for Ori's attention did so with considerably more verve and anger than the first. A shadowy figure jumped out of an alleyway, revealing itself under the roar of an oil-lamp.

She had a tri-color pattern of orange and black patches upon a field of white. Calico, if Zacarias's knowledge of house cats could be relied upon. But her otherwise colorful coat of fur was mostly hidden by black leather armor and a ridiculous cape. In other words, the young woman dressed almost exactly like Oriole!

"Caraway!" Brain Cell exclaimed, sounding distracted and looking even more so. "Good thing you're here. I could really use some help. This—"

"So that's it, is it?"

"W—what?"

The newcomer flashed an indignant glare, then got right up in Oriole's grill to grab him by the cape collar. It didn't escape Zacarias's notice that the calico had eyes only for the ginger tabbycat. As far as she was concerned, the outrealmers didn't even exist.

"Don't what me! You run off without so much as a word to anyone. Then you stay missin' for the Keeper knows how many turns of the moon. And now that yer finally back, the first thing out of yer useless mouth is to ask me for a favor? Have you any idea how sick with worry I—we was over you, ya sod?"

One of Zacarias's eyebrows rose to meet his hairline. He studied the calico's face—the flare of her nostrils, the tears that brimmed yet refused to fall—and the hopelessly unicellular manner with which Oriole blinked at her. Zacarias understood instantly. And having understood, he shook his head ruefully.

"Sorry, Cara." Brain Cell at least had the grace to apologize. Good recovery. Then he ruined it immediately by launching into another one of his non-explanations. "But these outrealmers need our help! Tell you what. I'll take Zacko to the hospital, and assuming Gladiolus is there, we should be covered for the Night. You show Renna to the tenements, you hear? Make sure she's settled before Dawnbreak. You'll do that for us, won't you, Cara?"

Brain Cell was so sincere too! That was somehow the worst part about it. Zacarias watched as Caraway's angry glare first expanded in incredulity then deflated in resignation. The Manusya himself could've written the expletive-filled tirade that the young woman had every right to unleash on her oblivious 'friend'. But then, to his surprise, the woman's response proved generous if a little stiff.

"Oh, go on then. But you better come find me first thing next moonrise and tell me exactly what you've been up to. No ifs or buts about it!" The calico then turned to the pink frog, her viridescent eyes softening considerably. "Renna, was it? Never thought such a… wee thing like you could be a Wayfarer! You better come with me, then. I'll show you to yer shelter for the Night."

If Bubblegum had taken exception to her characterization as a 'wee thing', she didn't show it. She gave her companions a barely perceptible nod, then bounded off after Caraway's billowing cape. Zacarias noted the squish-patter of her pink bare feet against the cobblestone, thinking a certain Rakshasa would've really enjoyed it if she were here right now.

Oriole too took off, in the opposite direction of his calico friend. Zacarias hastened to follow, even as a new curiosity popped into his head. Why did that calico chick agree to help so easily, even though she was clearly mad as hell? It felt almost like Serac having to say 'yes' to some dumbass thing…

To Oriole in person, however, he directed an entirely different question, "Say, why're we in such a hurry to see this doctor friend of yours? Couldn't it wait until toMorrow?"

"Gladiolus is a difficult man to get a hold of. We have to make the most of the time he's actually in Duskpool. Even if it did come about due to… tragic circumstances. Besides, it's what my nose pointed me to, so I have to follow it."

"Your nose?" Zacko raised the other eyebrow. "What is that, like an [Oath] thing?"

"Something like that."

Tidereigners and their [Oaths]. Zacko shook his head again, smiling ruefully as he did. Did your nose never tell you about the dangers of leading someone on? Hell hath no fury and all that…

Oblivious to Zacarias's internal gossiping, Oriole remained steadfast in his local guide duties. He led them past and through more shadowy alleyways and bridge crossings. The streets of Duskpool were well-lit yet empty, most of its residents having turned in for the coming Day.

With roughly 20 minutes left in the cycle, the pair finally made it to their destination. The hospital had certainly seen better days, but it was still the most impressive landmark this side of the Sanzu River. A U-shaped, neo-Gothic behemoth wrapped around the ruins of a long-untended garden, ivy-clad walls and slender spires setting the scene for a period horror piece. And seeing this finally gave Zacarias real pause.

"Hold up." He stopped dead in his tracks. "You want me to sleep in there?"

"Well, yes." Oriole sounded as annoyed as he looked bewildered. "Why, is there a problem?"

"No problem." Zacarias tried and failed to keep his voice from rising an octave. "Lead the way."

No way I could admit to Brain Cell that I'm afraid of ghosts. Not after the way I've been making fun of him for two straight cycles.

Besides, just because a place looked like a classic horror movie, didn't mean it was a breeding ground for ghosts, did it? Even so, Zacarias couldn't stop himself from quavering with every step into the hospital's deserted hallways, nor jumping at every creak of its mildewed floors.

Things quickly went from bad to worse, as Oriole led them into the motherfucking basement. I should've known, Zacarias cursed himself. Didn't buddy mention 'morgue' back there? I should've known what I was getting myself into!

Despite his best efforts, the NINEFOLD master found himself drawing closer and closer to his much scrawnier Tiryaga companion. He was just about to reach for Oriole's tattered cape, with a mind to grab onto it like he might have held mama's skirt once upon a Manesferan childhood. And that was when he saw it. A massive, slouching shadow that shifted within the darkness ahead.

Dread. Violence. Claws and the smell of death. Zacarias was ready to scream bloody murder. And he would've too, dignity be damned, if the slouching shadow hadn't suddenly come into focus in the light of its own hand-held lamp.

From this distance, only the man's face was visible. Broad and kindly, with a pair of pince-nez glasses giving it a learned and distinguished air. His fur was of a brightly burning orange, with bold black stripes to mark the rugged contours of his face.

Zacarias recognized the 'type' of cat immediately. Because the man wasn't a cat at all! Well, he was, but not what people usually meant when they talked about—

"My, oh my," the tiger murmured, voice sonorous like a mountain, yet as gentle as a feather, "what do we have here? Well, don't just stand there. Come into my office before the veils claim you for themselves."

[Designation: GLADIOLUS ere'BRANAGH]

[Wayfarer Race: TIRYAGA]

[Karmic Level: 74]

[Liminal Karma: 38,241 क]

[PRIMAL Instrument: SCALPEL]

[Oathborn: DREAMPROWLER]

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