Lovelace, pt. 8/?

Sooner than later, the tunnels do end, and I’m here waste deep in piss and shit. The fuckin’ Sisters led me to an escape route, alright; right into the godsdamned Cloaca. It is a reeking foulness like too many gutters I’ve been down, multiplied by a city of how many thousands now? At least the refugees have to shit outside the walls. No, this is the stuff fit only for a good, upstanding Allerhanian citizen’s chamberpot. I hear there used to be a river here, some nymph or other that turned into one to escape the Horned God and his…well his raging fucking dick. How many rivers and forests were the result of that fucking pervert?

But to hand, my torch is glowing a sickly green, matching my stomach. I stop for only a moment to catch my breath, and the…water? below me catches the bile that couldn’t help but come gushing out my mouth after a good, stiff lungful of this fetid hell. The choice is now clear before me: I can go left or I can go forward. Holding the torch low to the water seemed a good idea, y’know, to find the direction the water? was flowing and chase it the fuck out of here, but hey, something bubbled up from beneath and damn well exploded, coating my, and the torch, and the matches I had left, in please let it be water?. So, there is one option. And it is a bad option. And I do not like this option.

I stick my hand in, the good one, I don’t want a septic wound, and wait and try to catch the current. Instead I catch a log of shit, vomit again, and head left. It came from the right, after all, straight into my godsdamned palm and I swear to my sweet, innocent blue heaven that I will strangle that Sister when I find her again. First a hired assassin, now the ass end of Allerhan, and all for what? A woman I was fucking that dies in the night? I had nothing to do with the cunt other than what she wanted to do with her cunt, and that was mostly just talk. They come in sometimes, the talkers. They don’t have anyone at home to vent to, so they treat us like paid therapy and swing by the whorehouses. I guess they figure if you’re rich enough to go to one of the colleges, you’re rich enough to be a lousy fucking gossip, so they come down to the gutters where we know how to keep our mouths to ourselves. She was rattled, though, more than the usual nervous girls tend to be.

I hadn’t seen her before, and the uniform she had on definitely hadn’t been this side of Allerhan outside of maybe looking for some escaped prisoner, because the kind of shine her buckles wore was reserved for the upper crust, and no mistake. Queensguard, she called her? Fuck my life. Just fuck my life.

But she was nice enough. Called me by name. Hell, asked for my name. And she seemed genuine enough to get the fake one I use when dealing with the talkers. But the night is hazy. We went down hard, har har, and I don’t remember much aside from waking up to her cold beside me. She said something though, that stuck with me, something about Outpost VII, that guardtower that burned down. Seemed to weigh heavy on her. She said she thought it was too convenient, too simple, whatever that meant. I don’t usually pay much mind to what they’re going on about. They pay me to listen, not to care. Still, Outpost VII. That had been coming up a lot in the lower city lately. Folks saying it was an inside job. False flag to get people angry at the Ghostlander refugees. Me, I could give two fucks. Three squares and somewhere to sleep suits me, I leave the politicking to the mucky-mucks whose muck I’m currently slogging through. Besides, false flag or no false flag, those Ghostland fucks are creepy as hell. Skin white like undyed wool, their hair doesn’t even kink right. For Zay’s sake, they’re anti-theists, the lot of them. And here they are, swallowing their pride in their godlessness by crowding around the Emerald Jewel in the Mother’s crown city. Surely there’s some irony there. Or something. Fuck it reeks.

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