It felt like an entire day had gone and past in the brief moment between when the great King of the North breathed his last and Runt remembered to breathe again.
He simply felt exhausted at that point. Whatever fire was breathing through him when the battle with the King of the North was going on had gone out inside of Runt and every ache he had been ignoring and powering through suddenly found it’s voice and started up a passionate harmonious chorus in his weary frame. And his stomach; it found it’s own voice in the cacophony that was his nervous system and alerted him that he hadn’t eaten anything in several hours, as he knew that an empty stomach was wise just before battle, as it meant there was less to be bound in the firespring that was his form.
Someone had moved their light source in the dimly lit room and the glistening of the King’s scales reflected sharply for a moment and the looming wall of corpse in front of called to him and his tanning techniques that he still had use for. He rubbed his eyes enough to gauge the depth of the body, where it would be best to make his starting cut to get past the rigid membrane that held the scales into place over the muscular frame of the great beast. There was just so much, he just shook his head, he couldn’t fathom that a dragon could be so large, so massive. He knew it would take him the better part of several hours to properly skin it but he knew his time frame was short; far shorter than his stamina so he needed to move quickly and deliberately. Focusing what he had left for his will, he located a section near one of the older wounds the King had sustained and started to cut through the thick hide with his skinning knife.
He heard what could only be described as a dragon roar that was put through a syphon pitched up to the sky as Neela screeched and flew over at top speed into Runt’s range, her claws grasping in midair. She bore a look of rage and concern in her reptilian features as Runt could barely make out the words in Draconic. He caught himself nearly waving her off with the tanning knife out of reflexive and paled inwardly at the idea – Neela meant nothing offensive about her sudden approach, although she was outraged. Runt stopped the cut he was doing, partially out of concern that sudden movement would tear the start he had carefully made and that he wanted to piece together what Neela was livid about.
It was then that the cleric of Gorhan, Gregor strode around the massive flesh mound that was the ruler’s corpse, his face pinched in anger and disapproving concern. His arms were swung open in a wide arch, clearly gesturing that Runt’s behavior was inappropriate and not considerate; his words drove like staves into Runt as he demanded to know why Runt would be so disrespectful to such a great and powerful foe. He looked shocked and disappointed at the smaller humanoid, who stood there in stark, rigid form, processing the behavior of what he considered to be reasonable and sensible party members.
Then it dawned on him that they were upset that he was skinning the King of the North.
Several emotional flooded him at that exact moment, so many of them he almost fell unto his back in the wake of the tide of their onslaught. He was tired, bloodied, worn out, and far, far away from anything he remotely called home, even if he knew what that even meant at all. Ice water felt like it was thrown on his raw nerves as he felt the color drain out of his face. He felt ashamed that it didn’t even dawn on him that he should be considerate of such a creature, that he had grown so much more respectful, that form and function was beginning to pool around him inside, that he felt stern in his life for once. And in the moment, it dawned on him that he had been gently leaning towards the teachings of Gorhan, that perhaps he could find justice and peace in his life in the ways of the Church, and somewhere inside of him, he started to … believe that he could trust in such a God.
And that belief was snapped in half; like a brittle castle in the wake of a storm. The destructive force that tore through such meager beginnings was every time the Law told him that he belonged to his family and they had a right to decide his Fate, that every law abiding person who ever stood in the name of justice would surely either leave him to die in the hands of evil or turn to such a ghastly force for their own designs, as his lost friend Meph had surely done so before they left Malac’s Cross. Runt wasn’t sure what he would come home to when they left but he knew the day they walked away, it was the last he would ever see what he considered to be his friend, one way or another.
And now this fickle man demands that he simply throw away his spoils to the dogs, that the gain from the death he helped bring together should be forsaken. As if the Dragon Kings themselves didn’t hoard?! DID THEY NOT BEHAVE THE SAME WAY?! He felt feverish as he dropped the tanning knife back into his satchel and wandered away from the Cleric, refusing to meet his eyes. He turned his back on him as the Law turned its back on Runt countless times. He felt the world unravel away from him once more, blood once cooled pulsing in his veins again. Embers that were quietly fading out rapidly were stoked up again in the belly of his soul and his eyes ignored everything that wasn’t ready to be stolen, broken, or destroyed. Shapes and sounds blurred around him until he spotted what he sought.
The thrones.
He moved quickly up the stairs, he could hear the cleric chanting something behind him but it was of no concern or interest to Runt. He would surely kill the man as he stood for denying him what he truly deserved, what he had earned in the heat of battle but he knew that the consequences would be far too risky and messy in the end. He would save his revenge for a day that was truly worthy of it. He reached the first throne on the high stone dias, it’s frame wrought with an embarrassment of riches and wealthy.
Too easy. He wanted a challenge. He knew that the Dragon kings were far too clever to not have some sort of readily accessible pocket or storage space for when they needed to respond immediately. He found the catch for the secret compartment that was in the base of the chair, a cleverly hidden leg plate on the right side of the chair. Not finding any wires or smelling anything, he flicked the first lever open.
He knew the second he pressed the plate, he had depressed it the wrong way and triggered the trap.
His senses nearly blew themselves out as he threw himself off to the right, his eyes spotting the vents mounted under the seat just in time for them to spit not doubt poisonous gas right where he stood. Having just enough forethought to let the gas dispate before checking the contents, he waved the remaining gas away and scooped out the contents of the seat; placing the potions and wand that he acquired on the ledge and continuing over to the King of the North’s throne itself.
Kicking away the rest of the crenelated granite around the throne, Runt was push himself hard to pay attention to make sure that he was more agile springing the trap on the seat, knowing full well that the last three were likely trapped as well. Carefully sliding a section of the lower underseat where the Dragonking could have readily done while seating, he lifted the seat’s hidden compartment up. He felt the spring’s tension give away and he was able to throw himself aside as a dagger the size of his forearm snicker-snacked through the lid and the base like a tongue between a set of lips, ready to razz him to death. He could hear someone off in a distance calling out to him but they were immaterial now, just birds on a seashore somewhere in a different world. All that was left was the thrill, the risk pounding through his veins, his blood ran scolding as he slinked down the stairs, moving past a dulled blur that tried to wave at him as he moved past. In the back of his mind he knew it was likely Gregor but he had nothing left to say to him, may his rules serve as a trapfinder once Runt was done.
Popping up to the parallel dias, he searched the throne enough to recognize that it was a similar arrangement as the previous one and easily drop his crow-bar into the spring mechanism into the loaded spring plate, he grinned like a maniac as he saw a wicked, arched blade poised to cut him down as he attempted to remove the contents of the compartment. He withdrew the sequestered contents of the casement and set them down in front of the throne that the spell casters he most certainly knew were following him.
One left.
He could almost feel drums playing in his head as he strode over to the last throne, which was undoubtedly the King of the West from the coloring of the gems embedded in the throne. He swore that he had the trap contained by sealing the gaps of the trap without opening the lid completely, his hand almost grasping what was inside when he felt a rush of air blow past his arm and suddenly his face was covered in acid.
Immediately he threw his hands around his face, attempting to wipe it off, completely forgetting that the magic in the armor he wore protected him. He felt its power sliding over him, the acid rolling off his face like water and as it dissipated, he found his face in his hands and his knees on the ground. He could hear the gentle flap of wings nearby, he would have waved Neela off if he could convince his hands to leave his face. He felt a soft hand on his shoulder, he really couldn’t tell who’s it was but it was soft and kind so he left it alone as he collected himself. He could hear murmuring somewhere past the elder dragon’s remains, voices echoing off the great cavern walls. He pulled the large staff like object out of the compartment, set it down on the ground and walked quietly down to the dias wall and sat down.
–
Hours passed. He went from feeling stupid to feeling empty to falling asleep. They shifted their watch shift around so he could rest, they must have because he woke up by feeling Thanya’s hand on his shoulder. He idly wondered if it was her hand earlier when he was distraught but it was never confirmed. For a woman that was strikingly beautiful, both physically and vocally, he never quite understood why she rarely spoke and half the time, she did so in a battle cry. Having watch with Thanya was a contrast of fact as she spoke so little and Quinn and Runt would speak for hours. In hindsight, Runt realized that the exchanges Quinn and Runt had were quite dangerous, for they were distracted enough that they might have been overtaken but … he was never concerned about that.
Thanya was something exotic and almost surreal to him. He couldn’t quite get his mind to comprehend her conceptually; she seemed to have many of the qualities that would make the McWac tribe quite impressed but he could tell that such behavior would easily be blown off by her. She had a primal passion to her that was subtle at times, only to rapidly explode into action, catching him as well as their opponents off guard just the same.
She smirked at him and he realized that he had been staring at her for the better part of… he didn’t know how long. She had been idly tuning her stringed weaponized instrument while cleaning it, and he attempted to play it off like he was fascinated by the relic she cared for but they both knew it was her that he was transfixed with. No words were being changed, just wordless feelings from across a tight circle around a tiny fire that Neela helped start. He pulled his eyes away and let them dance across the thrones out around them. He glanced back at her, a tool in her mouth as she seemed to have the bladed lute at an awkward angle, getting the strings in a proper place. Her eyebrow arched up subtly, in an unspoken understanding of those who lived outside the law. With a subtle sliding, she put the wires back into place and tweaked the twines a bit before softly strumming the strings. The notes slid out and curled around Runt’s ears, climbing inside and making him feel… at peace. And … confident.
He returned the raised eyebrow, to which she raised the ante with a smirk, daring him into action. He slipped out from his little perch, and quietly slipped up the stairs to the dias, his prying blade already floating in his hand. He looked back at Thanya, who had changed her chords a bit and softly, very so softly she sang – everyone at rest seemed to fall into a deeper rest and Runt… felt more clear headed than he had in quite some time. He smiled without hesitation then spun around to examine the throne. He felt like he had all the time in the world and there was no need to rush as he slid his prying blade under the first gem, getting behind it and carefully, so carefully pushing it out into his open hand.
An emerald that was size of a child’s heart rested in his hand. It was worth several thousands.
His eyes nearly leapt out of his head and he shared another speechless conversation with Thanya, who had nonchalantly sprawled herself against her pack, looking like a lounging amazon goddess who only had time to be relaxed and be adorned. How her hair glistened in the darkness, her eyes seemed mischievous as Runt made himself turn around and continue the process over, and over, and over again.
By the time he was done, the throne room was devoid of riches and the party had piles of wealth. Not soon after he wrapped up that the shift switched as Runt and Thanya shared the briefest understanding before going to their own bed rolls and he couldn’t help but wonder … what passed through her mind that night. She didn’t need to do anything but she seemed to understand far more than he could say.
It was the kind of evening that had healed Runt in ways he never quite could understand or see at the time. He was able to use his skills without fear, without pressure, and it was everything he ever thought he needed.
Gilded Gibberish. 