#Apostrophe Mincer

[more-ri]

Inevitability

Dozens of acres spreading across a small valley, with dotted orchards and clearings creating a quilted tapestry of nature. Dotted lights shone through the trees as lanterns and reflections of moonlight snaked their way around aged stumps and whispering brooks. The Miran forest was peaceful, and even at night the gentle blanket of darkness gave its daylight inhabitants a restful slumber. Few people lived there, as it took a rare pairing of hardiness and pride to create a farm that could persist through the area's uncharacteristically rough winters. The ones that did take to living there built large barns at the outskirts, attempting to integrate the hard lines of construction with the winding wiles of the forest. 

Sicily saw none of this as she ran for her life. As she tripped and stumbled through the underbrush she saw the forest as another pursuer. Every low hanging branch was a grasping hand, each stone was a hunched beast waiting to pounce, and each thorn was a knife aimed at her throat. She had forgotten how long she had been running. It was daylight when she first thought she was being followed, and dusk when the near miss of an arrow confirmed her suspicions.

Attempting to catch her breath in the shelter of a small hollow, she ran a finger across the roughened skin of her neck. Removing her collar was a wager that took shears and more pain than she thought possible, luckily for her the lock snapped before her neck had. Unluckily, she had been unable to return the favor for her brother before they had to flee their short-lived shelter. She thought of where he could be, though the guilt of leaving him behind was quickly outpaced by the panic created by the dry crunching of nearby leaves.

Bolting into the nearby greenery, Sicily calculated how much longer she could run as the pain in her legs grew. The result was unfavorable, yet as it was her only current option, she brushed aside her ratings of nearby hiding spots. Thinking of ways she could set a trap, a seed began to sprout in her imagination. As she planned, an exposed root that had grown 60 years ago readied itself to fulfill its life’s purpose. It stood valiantly as her foot ran aground, sending her sprawling into the dirt.

Indulging in pain on the ground was a luxury she could not afford, she thought. As she pushed her way into a crouched position the pain in her ankle dutifully informed her that her previous calculations may have become inaccurate.

A tear escaped her eye, cutting a line through the dirt on her cheek. Considering surrender as an option, she closed her eyes and attempted to organize her final thoughts. 

Behind her, the shadows increased in weight. Banishing all traces of light, the trees themselves began to look sickly as a pressure built up inside of her. Holding her eyes shut, she braced for the inevitable and waited. The inevitable took longer than she expected however, and her preparation for a sudden end began to feel flimsy. She started to wonder if the inevitable was coming at all, and if the situation was an ill-timed joke. 

Those thoughts left her mind all at once when a hot breath trailed its way across her ear. Her hair stood on end, and her bones felt as though they were trying to leave her body as her mind raced to understand what had happened. When something wet flicked at the tip of her ear, a sudden surge of strength carried her from the ground into a full sprint. 

Ignoring the shooting pain of her ankle in the hope that she could deal with it at a later date, Sicily used every bit of energy that she had left to form a strategy solid enough to work. As she broke through the treeline, the abandoned barn in the distance introduced a bright new variable. 

The cracked, pallid paint and shredded wooden beams spoke of a poorly built and considerably neglected homestead, yet the promise of forgotten tools provided hope for Sicily. She limped for the large entryway, moving past the door that had long since fallen from its rail. The open door had clearly invited all manner of creatures to take shelter within the old walls, as Sicily scanned for anything useful in between nesting materials and desecrated meal scraps. She hoisted herself into the loft with a ladder that threatened to sprain her other ankle with every step. 

The patchy roof sent weak beams of moonlight to illuminate the comparably untouched loft. Remnants of hay littered the floor and a table was snugly fit into one corner. Sicily made a note of each, as well as the lack of anything that might save her. Old glass bottles clattered to the side as she desperately rummaged through piles of straw, yet as each search proved fruitless she felt her remaining resistance deteriorate. 

She held her face in her hands as she cursed whoever she could think of, her brother for leaving her, Algernon for giving her hope, and the Hunter that followed her for taking it away.

 As the despair crept its way through her bones, the moonlit beams washed over the floor, bringing a twinkle to the corner of the room. Painfully inching her way over, Sicily felt the last bits of hope within her stir.

A broken tinderbox lay on the floor, its contents spilled around it. Among them a flint and steel sat like a sparkling gemstone upon a pedestal. As she reached for them she apologized to those she had cursed, with the exception of the Hunter. She gave a few practiced strikes, each spark igniting a new possibility within her. Focusing on the dwindling wellspring of arcane energy within her, light red sparks arced between the metal and stone. 

Sicily pushed her back against the table, with the large opening behind her she had a full view of the loft and the barn floor below. She ran through her incantations with the time she had. Footsteps interrupted her 17th recitation, each one threatened to crack her scrimshawed willpower. Attempting to control her wild pulse, her eyes trained furiously on the doors.

The shadows beneath her danced with the clouds, each one moving carelessly in spite of the determination that filled the room. Their lively festivities were cut short as a particularly large shadow took shape in the opening. 

An unfortunately familiar breath sent Sicily tumbling to the opposite wall, as she tried to avoid the subsequent assault on her ear. As she took in the figure that blotted out the light, it struck her as being far too angular. Its movements were that of a convulsing body, yet it was deliberate in how it crawled. The creeping mass of shadow spread from the desk until it stood in front of her, limbs contorting into a humanoid facsimile. 

Sicily forced herself to move, confidence mixed with desperation in her chest as she struck the flint screaming. A harsh glow emanated from her arms as the small sparks grew into curved patterns. The stark lines of fire twisted and broke into fractals that mixed with each other into a belt of flame that washed its way down her hands. She used her own energy to contain the force, amplifying it and giving it clear direction: to render the figure to ash. 

The flames cascaded from her hands and lit the room ablaze, spreading wild color as they did. Torched floorboards turned a dark black as they began to crack, glass melted into a swirling liquid, and the cloak of the creature began to catch. As the flickering flames enshrouded the figure, Sicily felt the knot that had welled within her loosen. The harsh heat that scarred the room around her provided a comforting escape from the nightlong chase. 

All at once the flames ceased. The glowing fractals shattered as the curved patterns crumbled into the air. Sicily felt the air leave her lungs as her attunement to the arcane was shunted from her body. Her hands trembled as the energy she had been using vanished beneath her, leaving her rooted against the wall. Looking up, she watched as the figure wordlessly withdrew several knives from its bag, placing each one neatly on the corner table. Each one had a distinct shape, and was placed in a specific order in front of the creature. After it was satisfied with its arrangement, it turned to face her.  

“Qué exhibición más... impresionante. ¿Te divertiste?”

“What?” Sicily said as she faced the approaching figure. The air seemed to get thinner the closer it got, as it stood over her she felt her legs weaken.

”Te pregunté si te divertiste.”

It’s breath rolled over her as it spoke, sending shivers down her spine. Once it was done it gave her a crude imitation of a smile, an all too wide gesture that it seemingly needed to unhinge parts of it’s jaw to do. The razor-like teeth paired with the smell coming from the creature formed a pit in Sicily’s stomach, as it presented a new option for what had happened to her brother. 

“You’re a monster.” Sicily weakly slid down the wall, giving the creature little satisfaction in its victory.

“No no no, todavía no terminamos.”

The creature’s words forced themselves under her skin, each syllable blurring the world around her. It extended a pair of bony hands, running cracked fingernails down her cheek. Tightening them around her head it brought her face closer until she felt the muggy heat of its breath, leaving the rest of her body swinging limply. Crackling bolts of pale energy arced between them as it’s sickly green tongue darted towards her.

“Mírame! Mírame a los ojos.” 

Thin fingers clawed at her eyes as they scraped them open. At the mercy of its will, she lost herself in the emptiness of its gaze. 

Within its eyes, she found the inevitable.

---

The forest glowed with the pastel colors of daylight, subtle reds waging an endless war upon the dark blue sky. Sitting on the desk, Apostrophe watched the colors shift into the beginning of a new day. The morning after a successful hunt was always a pleasant one, and as they turned both collars over in their hands a rare sense of contentment washed over them. Stashing them in their bag, they stretched their legs and began to wonder if a stroll through the forest they had just ran through was worthwhile. Deciding that an apple would make a wonderful morning treat, they made their way from the desk to leave the barn. As they left they admired the splattered gore that plastered the loft, though it struck them as a shame that they hadn’t gotten the woman’s name. After a moment they swept the thought away with little more than a sigh as they left the barn to search for their apple.

[more-ri]

Brothers

The flickering light of the bonfire cast dancing shadows of the men who sat around it onto the bare stone walls behind them. The long beings danced and frolicked through fields of bland brickwork, occasionally tripping over a chunk of granite where a shoddy repair had been done. They had used their freedom to mock the prisoners, goading them into acting out so that they might find solace in the suffocating iron of an insubordination cell. 

The shadows scattered and ran as the piercing light of the night watch’s lanterns swept over them. The guards walked among the men with iron batons and stone faces, hoping to find any wisps of arcane energy they could snuff out. Above the yard were several watchtowers that seemed impossibly high from the ground, each connected to the other by a wall made of wooden beams so thick it should’ve been a crime to have cut down the trees for simple lumber. Atop these towers sat handfuls of guards, each equipped with crystalline searchlights that illuminated the upturned dirt and pools of mud that surrounded them, and a small box that allowed them to communicate with their twin facility in case of emergency.

Sat apart from the group of chatting men were two who placed themselves away from the fire. As the cold of the night began to sneak through their thin jumpsuits, their conversation slowed.

“Did she really try to shoot you?” As the man leaned in, his mud speckled eyeglasses slid down his nose, falling before he could stop them. As a look of surprise emerged on his face, a nimble hand reached out to catch them before they had the chance to clean themselves in the dirt.

Apostrophe held the eyeglasses gently, turning them around as she examined them. She took a chance to look through them, and was quietly surprised at how clear they made the world around her. Returning the pair to him, she pondered a moment before responding.

“Yeah. I think some part of me suspected she was going to.” She said, hugging her legs closer. “It was just, difficult. To see it coming.”

She looked over the man who she’d slowly been able to open up to. Friend might have been an overstatement, yet as he was one of the few people who hadn’t tried to stab her in their first conversation, it was close enough. His glasses and athletic form gave the impression of a librarian who retrieved overdue books by force, though his short cut hair and friendly demeanor painted the picture of a guard who was fired for refusing a bribe. Painted in sloppy handwriting on the collar of his suit was “No. 17650, Calan.”

Calan stretched his arms out, breathing a sigh as he looked up to search the sky for any new stars.

“Wasn’t a gun, but one time a lady came at me with a kitchen knife.” Calan said, with the nonchalance of describing his birth sign.

“Oh.” Apostrophe said. “Did you deserve it?”

“Of course not, who do you think I am!”

Apostrophe pointed at the nearest watchtower. 

“I- fine.” A moment passed before he said: “I ran that time. Not like I could fight back then anyway.”

“You’re really building up the tough guy reputation.”

Calan sat upright, waving his hands in the broad motions of a half baked plan.

“Alright, how about this:” He said, looking around before he continued. “You and I find a way out of here, then we kick off our new lives by having a night out. Two dressed up gentlemen with spirits in our hearts, luck on our side, and women in our arms."

As he spoke, Apostrophe watched as his eyes filled with a familiar hunger. As her better judgment began to form cohesive thoughts, it was pushed to the back of her mind at the thought of freedom. The taste of being able to do as she pleased again made her mouth water. Calan reached a hand out in front of her.

“What do you say, brothers in crime?”

---

As the cold snuck in through the shutters of the inn, the conversation inside grew dead silent. A chill ran up Apostrophe’s spine as her weak attempt at seduction suddenly seemed shortsighted.

“You’re a woman?” Calan’s words were slow, drawing conclusions that sent needles into Apostrophe’s fingertips.

“No. Well, not really-” Apostrophe wasn’t sure whether to scramble for words she didn’t have or her bag on the bed. “It’s compli-”

“Is that what it’s been this whole time?” Calan tensed, lacing each word with venom before spitting it out. “Use me as your ticket out then ditch me?”

“What? No. No, not at all. I wanted-” Apostrophe backed away, moving until her leg hit the frame of the bed. “I wanted our plan. Our night in the town?”

A small smile grew on Calan’s face, blooming into a wicked expression that pulled the air from the room.

“I guess this is close enough, right?”

Apostrophe froze, her better judgment had escaped from the box she put it in and was now ringing every alarm bell it could reach.

“What do you mean, close enough?”

Calan took several steps closer, each one made the room shake and the lights flicker.

“We can still have a very special night.”

“Calan, please.” Apostrophe slipped a hand into her rucksack. “Please don’t do this.”

---

Apostrophe walked down the moonlit street. Their steps out of the town were heavy, each one made their tired legs cry out in muffled pain. They wiped the mixture of blood and tears off of their face with a dirty sleeve before the cool night air dried it. Off in the distance a scream was quickly followed by a bell of the night watch, which had faded by the time Apostrophe collapsed beneath a roadside tree. 

[more-ri]

An Intentional Meeting

Two women stood across from each other, neither daring to break eye contact for even a moment. At their waist was a wooden table that separated the two, cluttered with burlap sacks and paper wrapped boxes, it was all that was keeping the two from lunging at each other. The one behind the table assembled a short stack of boxes. Her hands moved across the table with the dexterity of a seasoned professional, which made her message clear when she paused with her hand resting on the pile, eyebrow raised with a smug expectation. 

The other woman rummaged through her bag, her focus on maintaining eye contact made her fumble through her once familiar satchel .When her hand came to rest on warm metal, she knew she had won. As she placed her coins on the table she flicked one, causing it to roll in a wild vector towards the corner of the table. The eyes of the woman behind the table went wide as she jerked her head towards the coin, slapping it before it had the chance to run off. The cold iron fear that ran through her bones when she realized she’d looked away froze her in place.

“Hah! I knew I’d get you with that one.” The woman who’d won beamed as she collected her groceries. 

The merchant nodded as she put the coin away. “What does that make the score, twenty three to,” She paused, tapping her chin. “six?”

“Oh shush you, I’m allowed to relish my victories just as much as you are.”

The woman turned to walk away, before glancing around and leaning over the counter. 

“By the way, have you heard-”

The two women gossiped, paying no mind to the tall figure that walked past them. 

The figure drifted like a shadow from stall to stall in the merchant square, taking brief looks at their goods and holding even briefer conversations. Wearing dark patchwork clothes, they wrapped their cloak around themselves despite it being the middle of summer. Their pale face was set in a solemn frown, half hidden behind long curtains of grimy black hair. Deciding that none of the produce was worth buying they stole one last longing look at a bottle of wine before turning to leave. It was set much closer to the merchant than any of his other goods, and trying to sneak it out from under him would likely reward them with several bruises and a night in jail. 

Tallying their haul for the week, their shoulders drooped. Half a dozen assorted fruits and a loaf of bread wasn’t anything stellar, but it would do until they were able to hunt again. They began to lose themselves in daydreams of running through the woods when they were interrupted by a sudden voice. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you around.”

Leaning against a nearby wall, a short woman leered at the figure. Her sharp gaze was contrasted by a soft face that promised comfort, tanned skin that was burnt in places, and wavy black hair that fell like a waterfall. Draped in an off-white gown that was stained with the filth of poverty, she took deliberate steps towards the figure. 

“Got a name, stranger?”

The figure paused, before the brief spark of interest that held them faded and they continued to walk.

Matching their pace, the woman followed alongside them. The calculating look on her face eased into a relaxed smile. Though she didn’t speak much to the figure, the woman gave greetings and well wishes to many of the townsfolk they passed. In return the two received warm smiles followed by politely masked confusion as their eyes trailed up to her companion, who was attempting to bury themselves in their cloak. Whenever their eyes met they would give her a heated look of annoyance, which was met with a coy smile. 

The woman steered them back to the market district as she began to have pleasant chats with the merchants. The figure’s thin fingers clutched their pack closer to them, the dread of being discovered as a thief built as they looked for potential escape points in-between polite nods. 

“Emilia!” A familiar vinter called out to the woman, waving her closer with a feverish enthusiasm, the old man that greeted them from behind the stall was as aged as the wine he sold. As he and the woman launched into fast conversation, the figure felt their head spin from the noise. 

The old man pushed a bottle into Emilia’s hands, and in that moment of distraction the figure broke away, pushing for the edge of the crowd. Straining against the flowing tide of people suffocated them, and their ears began to ring as they were rocked back and forth.  Breaking free from the market the figure retreated to a nearby alley, stopping a moment to catch their breath. 

To their dismay, a moment was too long to stop.

“Leaving so soon?” Emilia walked up to them, looking barely inconvenienced from navigating the hoard of people. “I was hoping we could talk, properly.”

The figure stood to their full height, towering over the short woman in an effort to reclaim their lost confidence. As they debated between shouting or drawing their blade, they felt a weight press into their chest. 

The heavy weight of a wine bottle.

“I’ll even share, if you tell me who I’m sharing with.”

---

Apostrophe’s head thrummed as he struggled to open his eyes, the harsh morning sunlight was blinding. Managing a squint, he lazily rummaged through the closest nightstand for anything that would ease the dry pain in his throat. Finding nothing but stale wine, he pushed the empty bottles to the floor in frustration before beginning to wrestle with the smooth red sheets that curled around him.

“Someone’s lively today.” Emilia said. Sitting at her desk, she scratched notes into a ledger, occasionally flipping a page or giving the book a murderous glare. ”Once you’ve put yourself together I need some help. It’s been a good year but a couple of our guests started acting up and you need to teach them some manners.”

Winning his fight with the bed, Apostrophe murmured agreement and made his way towards the wardrobe. He managed to get halfway through putting on a pair of pants before his mind began to wander. Running his fingers over the polished wood of the button, his body began to feel icy. A creeping ache began to eat its way through his bones, sending shards of pain throughout his chest. 

A gentle hand touched his cheek, and his vision came into focus. Throwing the tangled mess of emotions into a box, he turned his attention to the lady that now held him. 

“You’ll get to break them down like a big, strong man. You’d do that for me, right?”

[more-ri]

A Gift

Pleasant laughter was heard between the clinking of teacups and silverware. It was a pleasant day in a small forest-side town where three women enjoyed their weekly tea party outside a small cafe. They were dressed in intricate frilled dresses, brightly colored fabric mixing with a years worth of lace and ribbon. Their light voices brightened the faces of waving passersby, who occasionally joined in on their small celebration.

Completely enamored by the three, a small elven child stood across the road and watched their party with a sense of wonder. They touched their own inky black hair as they began to feel pangs of longing. The robes they wore were clean, but they were a far cry from how beautiful the women's dresses were. Perhaps they could learn something from the women; how to dress like them, how to put on makeup like them, how to be like them.

"Eland'ria!" A sudden voice startled the child out of their daydream. Taking once last desperate look at the women, they turned to the one who had called them.

"We've discussed you running off like that, you know it'll scare your mother when she hears of it." Scolding the child was a tall woman with a basket full of assorted groceries. "What was it this time? It had better not be another animal, I'm still cleaning up after the last one."

The child's head hung low, before their arm slowly rose to point to the joyous scene across the street. The woman's face softened, turning from frustration to amusement.

"I see, well I suppose you are around that age." Using her free hand the woman tenderly brushed the child's hair, as one would pet a prize winning puppy. "I'll speak with Father when we get home. Let's try and be back before lunch, okay?" The child beamed, and skipped with delight the entire way home.

-

The child held a knife in their shaking hands. Tears blurred their vision as they tried to look around the candlelit room at the robed figures in every corner. Their throat burned as bile rose higher every time they opened their mouth to speak. Desperately wishing to be anywhere else, their eyes landed on the person in front of them.

What had once been a sweet voice was now hoarse, as one of the women from the tea party was now bound and crying in front of the child. As lace concealed bruises, blood stained the once flawless dress, which was now a mangled shadow of beauty.

"How do you like your gift Zale?" Father stood behind the child, placing a gentle hand on their back. "We got it just for you, I hope it's what you wanted." What they wanted? Was this what they wanted? They had just wanted to speak to the woman, was this what would've happened next?

"Zale." Sensing the child's distress, Father knelt down next to them. "I know you're feeling many, many things at the moment. That's natural, this is a very complicated part of the process. Just know that you will always have us at your back."

The child tried to steady their breathing, then took a step forward.

Natural? Natural. This was natural. This happens to everyone.

The child's legs gradually stopped shaking. They wiped their tears, blocking out the pleas and cries of the woman.

Everyone feels this. She's felt this. They were told they were better than everyone. They were better than anyone. They were better than her.

They were allowed this.

-

The child sat covered in blood, watching as the last bits of clean lace were turned scarlet. Their eyes were glazed over, their mind in a completely different place. Father watched, feeling a sense of pride.

"Good boy."

[more-ri]

A One-Sided Encounter

Soft music plays in a luscious red ballroom, polished checkered floor tiles reflecting the light of several candles and a golden chandelier. The music drifts across the room from an ornate grand piano as a woman plays a slow tune. Pallid skin and waist long inky hair contrast the vibrant room, almost making her appear monochrome. She's draped in a simple black dress, a slit exposing her pale legs up to the thigh. Her gloved hands work their way cautiously across the keys, creating a gentle melody. Between her notes, heavy breathing can be heard from the other end of the room. There rests a man dressed in a fine pinstripe suit, messy black hair betraying his attempt at an elegant look. His skeletal fingers wrap around the neck of a blurry humanoid figure as he wrestles the last bits of life from them. Wicked grin growing across his face, he takes one last look at the figure on the ground before throwing himself into a velvet armchair.

At the very least they're an interesting bunch, no?

Her voice is soft, chiming like a silver bell.

They're loud, talkative, obnoxious, I give it two months.

If her voice was like silver, then his was cracked and rusted.

They have their issues, but I think you're underestimating them. We saw them in that fight, if we're not careful they could turn on us at any instant.

The man stomps to his feet and begins to pace.

I don't like this. We were better off alone. Now we need to start hiding things again.

Gradually, the mans pacing quickens. He rushes from one end of the room to the other several times. With a shout he rams into the armchair, sending it screeching across the floor. Finally relaxing, he turns to the body on the floor with a disappointed look.

What do you think of the holder?

She's.. Intriguing.

She cheated. She did something, I know it.

Does it matter? It'll end in all the same ways.

The disappointment on the man's face morphs into smug satisfaction. The body on the ground begins to take a clearer shape, one of scales and tendrils.

Don't get ahead of yourself. She's mine.

The man bares his teeth at her, dropping his shoulders as he begins to prowl closer.

You tore the last one apart so quickly I was barely able to have any satisfaction.

The man silently creeps up behind her, sharp teeth extending from his maw. His hands reach out for her tender neck-

A sharp bang makes the man jump. The woman turns to look at him, keylid now slammed shut.

You're not the only one who gets to have fun here.

Frustration crumbling, the man began to hang his head as though he were a dog caught tracking mud across the fine flooring. After a moment he moves back to his crooked armchair, slumping into it once again.

Besides, this one looks particularly savory.

The woman absentmindedly ran her tongue across her teeth, becoming lost in thought. Hers were just as sharp as his, and the thought of slowly breaking and tearing....

The silence from the man got her attention, it wasn't a common occurrence.

Oh, you poor thing.

She rose from the piano bench and strode across the room, circling the armchair before deciding to sit in his lap. Raising a hand to cup his cheek, she caressed his face with her thumb.

You'll get your turn baby, you can do whatever you'd like once I've finished. I'll leave her alive, just for you.

She puts her fingers underneath his chin, raising his face to meet her own. His breathing quickens, the rapid thrumming of his heartbeat fills his ears. His face twitches, and they lunge at each other with silently drawn knives.

Apostrophe wakes up, stirred from their meditation by the rustling of the tree they're hiding in. Carefully stretching, they begin to relax and climb back into their position. Rummaging through their pack they pull out a makeshift telescope. (Technically an actual scope that had come attached to their rifle, they took it off as they found it disorienting to use in the middle of a fight.) Poking it between the leaves of their vantage point they were able to get a clear sight of their target.

The window of a gated mansion came into view. An ornately decorated bedroom could be seen inside. They shifted slightly, and turned the scope over to the sleeping figure in the bed. Excitement rose in their chest as they settled into a more comfortable position. Taking out some dried meat, they began to pass the time by watching the figure. Beginning to enjoy themselves, they took every bite deliberately and let their imagination wander.

[more-ri]

Punishment

Markets at dusk were fickle things. Often the day merchants were worn down from their duties, like haggling or yelling at small children. Whereas the night merchants were still in the process of unpacking tightly wrapped lumps of burlap and unweaving eccentric knots that secured their wares. It’s during this time that most sensible people take to leaning against whatever they deem the most comfortable and toning down their sales pitches. This time is where one would hear the claims of “fresh delicious fruit” turned to “not bad if you close your eyes”. This was, save for a particularly diligent grocer, who had just had the unfortunate luck of catching a thief.

The man’s hand shot from behind his fort of warm tomatoes with the speed of a cat discovering baths. He closed his fist around the gaunt wrist of the swinder, almost releasing it out of pure pity. As he pulled on the arm it belonged to, he found that the rest of their body seemed to coalesce within his vision. It was as though the person was put together out of the long shadows cast by the pointed roofs of the buildings that surrounded them. The tall figure looked like a scarecrow wrapped in dusty garbage bags, though the merchant felt the thought scurry from his mind as two beady eyes glared at him.

The eyes sat socketed in a face painted with a skull, especially realistic given how sharp some of the edges were.

“You’ll have to pay for that…” The merchant felt as though he had meant to use an exclamation point, yet as the words left his mouth they had the natural urge to be swallowed, as words tended to do.

“Satra, presta atención.” The thief spoke down at a smaller bundle of rags, a girl who’s chin was level with the stall’s table. She bore a similarly painted face, comparatively rounder without the sharp protrusions.

The thief stretched himself over the length of the stall, the world feeling much smaller for the three of them as he did. The merchant’s hand spidered its way into his hip satchel, giving itself something more substantial to do than sitting idly.

“Why would I need to pay for something that’s mine?”

The blunt words beat the merchant over his head as his hand pulled out a rolled cigarette in support. Confusion threw a small jubilee in a corner of his mind as he made a small show of fumbling a pouch of matches.

“That’s absurd,” He took a calming drag, which then turned to a nervous cough. “It’s my stall, been for a decade. Now either pay up or get out of my sight.” The merchant looked down at the girl and felt the pity from before worm its way back into his suspiciously apple shaped heart. In his mind the poor thing looked terribly thin, she must’ve been starving with how intently she stared at the produce, or something behind it? Her gaze was too high to be looking at the apricots, though with the other man in front of him the merchant didn’t feel confident enough to check behind him.

The man in front of the stall sighed, pinching the thin bridge of his nose. Rummaging through his pockets a look of vague irritation sloughed onto his face.

“Ponete de rodillas y reza, te aseguro que tu muerte será rápida.”

The man felt a glob of spit hit him squarely in the chest, while the merchant stood tall to launch another volley.

---

Apostrophe and Satra ambled through the woods after they left the small town, each felt gorged as they swayed in their steps. As they walked a small clearing beckoned them to rest, with promises of conveniently large rocks and the soft sounds of running water. Satra flopped against the nearest comfortable looking stone as Apostrophe began to count his newly acquired teeth.

Satra dug out her newest prize, a small hip satchel that came complimentary with dinner. Dumping out its contents she poked through the disappointingly mundane items. A handkerchief, small purse, and penknife may have been useful to a particularly adventurous naked rat, but she found little pleasure in them. Turning her eyes to the last hope of redemption in the absolute letdown of a treat, she spied the small pouch that housed the rolled cigarettes and matches. They had at one point been rolled at least, it seemed like half the pouch had decided to define themselves by how relaxed and loose they were, as a small pile of torn up leaves spilled from their confinement.

Taking the roll that seemed to be the most composed, she emulated what she had seen the merchant do, gruff attitude and all. Telling off an imaginary Apostrophe, she struck the match on the imaginary table and took a very real inhale. As the smoke turned her mouth to powder, she wheezed and doubled over. Her face scrunched and tried to escape into itself, creating the best frog impression for miles around. As she prepared to chalk her experiment up as a failure, a pressure closed itself around her wrist before she could smother her mistake.

“¿Qué estás tratando de hacer?” His tone cut its way through her, leaving a creeping chill. She realized there was nobody around for her to offload his attention onto as she met his unblinking glare.

“I… Don’t like it.” She tried to escape his eyes, only to find them crouched over her.

“I’m not raising a quitter.” He thrust the smouldering roll back at her, eyes narrowing. “Finish it.”

Her insides shrunk as she took another drag, each organ tried to push itself as far away as it could from her throat. Eyes watering, she shook her head as the cigarette dropped to the ground with a light crunch. 

Apostrophes' shoulders slouched as he sighed. A casual intensity floated across his face as he contemplated the burning dot that rested near his boot. Venom dripped from his voice as he seized the girl’s arm.

“No successor of mine will avoid consequences.” He sharpened his words until they could engrave themselves on her memory. “Finish what you started.” ---

Trevor lounged in the nook he made above Giza’s shop, the only place he considered safe in the over or under city. The eclectic hole in the wall was cramped, but easy to survey from. He ran a finger along his arm, stopping at a small circular scar. Light tingles crept through him as he pushed the raised pinkish skin. Heaving a soft sigh, he bundled himself in his cloak as he tried to escape the words they told him that day.

[more-ri]

Apostrophe Backstory

Born in a village outside the city of Sunfell, Apostrophe was raised in a splinter sect of Azalea worshippers who believed them to be a herald of a new age. Due to this, they were doted on for much of their early life, never learning how to take care of themselves. Once they aged and the false prophecy the cult believed in didn’t come to pass, their family decided to take matters into their own hands, performing rituals meant to link Apostrophe’s life to The Leylines of the Void, believing that it would grant them some fraction of Azalea’s power, and gifting them all with longer lives. During the rituals they forced Apostrophe to consume the flesh of magical beings, any that they were able to find. As barbaric as they were, they succeeded in two aspects. Firstly, they managed to force magic into Apostrophe’s body, however unwillingly it may have been done. Secondly, they attracted the attention of Azalea, if only for a moment. Horrified at the cult’s actions, Azalea granted their desire for an altered entropy by cursing them with accelerated life. Taking pity on Apostrophe, she spared them, instead leaving with them a small token. As Apostrophe awoke, they found a black lily within a cracked teacup sitting next to them. Leaving their home behind, Apostrophe found that hunting came quite naturally to them. It was a stable profession, made easier with their magical ability. They were careful never to use magic unless they were in deep woods, even then only using it to restrain particularly slippery prey. Their stubbornness about finishing every hunt they started betrayed them however, when they restrained a prize target within plain view of a Hunter camp. Beaten and detained, they were taken to prison, where they spent the rest of their adolescence. While there they were subject to miserable conditions, forced to sink to every low they could think of in order to get by. They survived with the same strategies they used during their upbringing with the cult, however their spirit was broken one particular evening. That night, a large bonfire was lit in view of all the prisoners, as all their stolen possessions were thrown into the fire. Apostrophe saw that among the items thrown, a lone black lily burnt to ashes. 

Biding their time, they made a narrow escape one night, running into the nearby wilderness. They scampered among the trees and underbrush, feeling precisely like the prey they were so used to catching. Their eventual successful escape was followed by a period of smoldering anger, during which time they prepared a list of Hunters who they vowed to get revenge on once they grew stronger. Believing it to be the first step of this process, they traveled to the city of Union in order to get more information on The Hunters.