Cutlery sprinted away. Her initial pushes off the ground sent alleyway debris spraying behind her. White light suffused the stones of the buildings. Heat enraptured Cutlery.
Her vision swam as a flash stabbed each corner of her sight. She blinked and looked behind herself. The whole alleyway was cleared of rubble and scorched black. Small arcs of power jumped between bits of metal. As her vision cleared she saw steam rising off her own skin.
A wave of pain rolled through her. The sliver pushed it down but she almost went unconscious. The elven mage put their hands down. Cutlery jerked her head forward and grabbed onto a low window frame. She swung and landed inside with a crash. Glass scattered across her skin and the wood floor. A few seconds of being out of sight would be Zenith's blessing to her survival chances.
For now, the god of magic could fuck off. Some magic lighting had just blasted her and it was still making her skin bubble. Her initial glance took in the small dim room and an outlined doorway. She jumped forward and threw it open. Inside she saw rows of partially finished quilts. The cracking of glass sounded behind her. She dipped through another doorway.
Despite her pumping adrenaline, she eased the door closed. It quietly creaked and clicked closed. Listening through the old wood door, she heard feet outside. A door nearby door creaked and the sound faded. After a minute of silence, they returned.
Slow steps echoed from other rooms after each of their rushed entries. Cutlery looked around. There were two windows and a simple desk with a chair. Some kind of office filled with papers. What paperwork did quilting guilds have to do?
A crash echoed from the quilt room outside. Soft thumps wooshed through the door as hanging quilts were pushed to the floor. Cutlery slowly stood and walked to the windows. Each one was propped open and Cutlery slid onto the sill. Due to her lack of height, she had to step on the desk to reach the sill. The papers below her crumpled slightly.
Cutlery had her left leg out when her door handle rattled. Glancing at the entrance, she froze. Why did she freeze? The frame exploded as the armored man's gleaming shoulder rammed through it. His momentum carried him all the way to the desk. He stood straight and saw quickly saw her. With a quick roll, Cutlery fell outside.
Her face clipped the window and she spun. With a twist, her feet got back under her and she landed in a deep crouch. The man looked out the window two floors above her. His huge head took up half the window. He growled and ducked back inside. Then the small elven figure looked out. A pair of crackling hands followed.
"Temple take you!" Cutlery yelled as she pushed on the slick ground. Another spark went off in her gut after saying that. So odd. Then the elven hands above her discharged.
-
This time Cutlery dove ahead of the bolt. Tendrils instantly lashed out from the bolt in all directions. Cutlery's shoes were fried. She ran. This time she went out into the street and started weaving between people. Her toes sizzled in her shoe's remains.
Fifths of the tower wouldn't kill citizens of Zurkonia. Especially if they weren't haughty golds. Cutlery reached a market. Spotting a group of beggar children dashed to them.
"Lose these. Trade clothes." She commanded quickly as she arrived in front of them. They all wore filthy rags. Not one of the kids came up to her waist. They knew her clothes would sell. So they went into an alleyway and traded.
Like a disgusting princess, her many gross maids undressed her behind a crate. They ravenously took all but her undergarments and rapier. As she threw on a sack that covered her down to her hips. From the corner of her eyes, her leather armor and gear went down ten different holes and alleys. She slapped some mud on her face and huddled up in the corner. Then she looked out on the market.
There the armored man was talking with a set of three guards. The elf mage caught up with a heaving chest. The guards shrugged and the fifth shoved them aside and stepped onto a stall to look around. The owner protested, then shut up as the man drew his longsword.
Tilting his head he said something to the mage. The elf brought their hands together and the armored man began to glow. His eyes moved faster and he seemed more confident. His gaze washed over her without stopping.
Her disguise had worked. The armored man stepped down from the stall and disappeared into the crowd. Cutlery saw one of the little street rats she had spoken to approach the armored man. They were young and looked like they were in trouble. Cutlery carefully watched as they produced a nice dagger, that was hers! The armored man almost shoved them to the side, then stopped.
Glancing at the dagger, then the child, he raised his eyebrows. The elf produced a gold coin and put it in the child's hands. The child raised a finger and pointed directly at her and shook the dagger in the air.
The armored man's eyes flicked instantly into contact with hers.
"Fucking Temple groping child!" Cutlery loudly cursed and blasted away from the crate. The hairs on her neck stood up as something washed over her. She didn't want to know. As she turned a corner in the alley she heard a metal crash behind her and a clamor of voices. Clanking metal filled the alley behind her.
As she rushed down the alleyway the sound of a fizzle and pop went off. Then three bee-like buzzes caught up to her. Her ankle gave out as three darts passed through it.
-
Cutlery's foot stopped working and she fell. A quick arm thrust caught her before she slammed into the wet stone. As Cutlery rolled into a crouch her left foo ignored most of her commands to move. The pain had simply been cut off. A bad sign.
The metal clinking slowed but grew louder. The mage distantly took deep breaths.
"Looks like this is it. All your little tricks brought you here, a little more tired, a little more hurt." The armored man said.
Cutlery's body began to shudder. The sliver was giving out, she had taken too much damage. The pain also slowly welled within her and crawled about her nerves. She saw the edge of the Temple's golden light over the rooftops. She was so close to the Temple's arrival she could feel its aura.
The building heat, pressure, and intense foreboding pushed on her skin and mixed with the pain. No, that couldn't be it. No one had ever reported the Temple having an aura like this, right?
"Prodito's shank this hurts," Cutlery murmured. What name had she just said? Confusion managed to finally overwhelm her senses. The armored man was walking at a snail's pace. Forty feet still separated them even though he had been walking for some twenty seconds.
Who was the name she had just said? A ringing bit into her ears suddenly. As she turned to face the sound light caught on the blade of the slow-moving armored man. He was running the long blade along the stone. The slow-motion movement cast up sparks that drifted very slowly up and down. The clanging metal noise was long and drawn out.
Looking into the man's eyes Cutlery saw only glee, enjoyment, lust for blood, and power. This was it for her.
"Temple takes him," Cutlery murmured. The spark went off in her chest again. What had that been about? She spoke again saying, "Temple." The spark went again.
"Temple, Temple, Temple!" Cutlery said. The spark went off just as small each time. What was this? Was there some power in the world? Or was she starting some kind of chant?
A memory emerged from the bog of her mind. A cornered sliver, a mage. They fought for their life, then they asked for the only divine help they knew of, the Temple.
"Temple help me." Cutlery said. The spark went and then a low rumble started within her.
"Temple I, uh, I pledge myself to thee." Cutlery said. The rumble built and then settled. It was stronger. Time dilated further. Her approaching executioner had frozen, but she did not.
"Temple, I offer myself to thee. If you aid me now, I will fuck up your enemies, I will-" Cutlery said and then a woosh of cloth came from behind her. She turned.
A white rigid cloak had settled on a nearby crate. A long red nose peaked out of the cloak. The cloak shifted with internal movement. The name entered her mind again. Prodito. A set of six long red fingers came out of the cloak and scratched the wall.
Prodito wrote in the childish scribbles of pickpockets used to mark alleyways as dangerous, good spots, or claimed. With some modifications, he effectively wrote in their language a simple message.
