Book of locks start (TBC)

BOOK OF LOCKS(working title)


“Drip.”

The sound, brings me back to myself.

I ease the cramp from my rigid digits and caress the mark on my palm, the indent left by my torque wrench. A sweet return of sensation and to the pain.

Day 27.

The calendar shows exactly 26 circled crosses.

One for every day I woke up inspired.

Every night I cross out that enthusiasm.

I rise and checking my time piece from within my breast pocket.

“Nnrrgghhh” as my hand scrubs dryly the forlorn hope of sleep from my eyes.

“Drip.”

Another cross, another failure.

Circling Day 28.

Popping cricks, cracking pops, as I stretch out the stoop from my bones.

Looking around my room, minimal is a touch generous.

Quick tour, shows me bed, basin, bucket, coat hook, chair, clothes chest, table and that bloody book. Sitting in the bar of light of cascaded street lamps. My small basement room with its very thin street level window. My only source of illumination now.

“Drip”

The bailing of the bucket can wait. Picking up the book, i shake with the urge to be able to smell its ashes on the wind.

“Hhhhhhaaaaaa” pent up emotion releases as I attempt to refocus,

“ it shouldn’t be this hard” looking down I see the simplicity. Crimson leather bound into a book. Dark spine of midnight with lettering in a silver curlicue text. Simply stating my failure
“Novice lock 1”
Turning the book to face me. A simple key hole is all that shows. Bronzed, scratched and nicked. The burnished opening shows much ware.

Every days teachings brought me away from where I currently find myself. Every day was a lesson wasted while my peers snickered behind there hands. I was the bar by which they all measured.

“Drip.”

“I’ve become a bloody cautionary tale” i move to ease the feeling of inertia. No more sitting still. No more keeping my head low.

“It’s time then?” I decide and wrapping my coat about me. Placing the cursed book under my arm. I take two steps across the width of my room. Reach out and turn the handle.

Soundlessly the mechanism operates. Easy as anything.

It gives me a moment of pause.

The first three days of trying and failing had brought me as close to insanity as I dared risk. Sleepless I had sneaked into the school stores to ‘liberate’ some oils. The type typically used to ease old and rusted locks. My thoughts had been a simple mistake and an old bit of equipment. So a quick oil to free any debris was my most earnest hope.

Another set of failures. While in my madness I had checked the oils on my door and hinges. The oil was sound, my thinking anything but.

Checking the entrance way I exit and close the door behind me without effort. It clicks into place, sound as anything. Locking up what could have been a echoed drip is the only noise.

Six steps lead me onto the platform before the rear door a quick turn of a key. A jiggle of the handle, some pressure where the metal door catches in the top left.

With a screeeeech that sets cats to yowling and dogs to howling. The first from fear the second a query of what, where, why, all at once.

The door all of a sudden pops open. Depositing me into the smells and sudden sounds of the city. The light above the door illuminates only while it isn’t flashing. Only allowing me momentary impressions of the back courtyard. Seems clear. Side stepping a growing stain to the right and holding my nose I quickly skip the last four steps up into the back courtyard.

After gaining some distance I take a breath hoping for it to be ammonia free. No such luck. Then what could I expect for the poorest district in town.

“How else could I afford the rent?” With a flick, my collar lifts and gains me some sense of menace. All for the best. Head up but looking down. I run the gauntlet and hope not to run into mad mags again.

As I get to the exit alleyway , encroached on by ever expanding need for space, housing or gaining storage. The narrowing alley where each sides roof overlaps the other. Blocks all light from above. A dumping ground for all and everything.

The smell greets me with a physical pungency. Then from a broken cellar door. Reverberates out in a cacophony.

“ who dares enter my chambers unannounced?” I pause before passing.

“WHO, Who, who” echoes one atop the other decreasing from a yell to a whisper.

“ alright mags it’s me young Josten” I say fighting the urge to just for once, slink past peacefully.

“Well announce yourself next time, or it’s a date with the headsman for you young Josten”
A rustle, a rattle and a rasping reciting prepared me.

As cats seem to explode from all parts of the broken cellar door. Out into the alley and turning every which way to escape the appearing mags.

A head appears, curled hair tied back into a severe bun. Bound in a cloth come rag by this time of usage. The piercing glow of eyes locked me into place. Mad Mags always could unsettle with that devastating directness. I for one always felt laid bare. If my soul could be seen, I would say mad mags had laid eyes on it.

Nonplussed she had found me wanting. Disquieted but trying to get by I figured direct intention was best. I had tried everything else before now.

“Evening mags, I’m just on my way to meet someone” indicating my intended passing path. Nothing, not even a blink.

“ these someone’s expecting you young Josten?” Indicated with a severe finger. Mags continued to amble up the remaining steps. Showing what once could have been described as fine clothes. Now stained with dust and detritus of all kinds only found in the very lowest of places.

“No, not exactly mags. Have to get some answers and maybe find a solution to a problem. If you’ll excuse me mags? “ this I say with a palm to my stomach asking as nicely as I thought possible. Intent, earnest and direct.

“ no, you are neither excused. Nor did you answer. Answer me now and answer me true. I’ll know otherwise” this said as mags fully emerges from the deep set cellar.

Stepping out into the variety of lighting hereabouts. Not least of all the occasional distant flash from my own entry light. Mostly backlit it gives me only cursory impressions of mags emotional gestures.

She stands and for just a second, seeming to elongate and tower over me with her looming presence.

A trick of the light, or strangeness of and no more I think.

Blocking my direct path, I answer truthfully. We are neighbours and I don’t need the headache again once I return. In that light I lay it all out as simply as I can.

“ I’m going out to find a certain someone, well, anyone who knows how to help me with my practice book.” I say holding up the book of many locks.

“ is it false praise you are after? You can buy that, in most low places hereabouts I believe”

“What? False praise! No mags you misunderstand me. My practice book, it won’t budge. I just need a start or a bit of instruction is all.” I indicate the spine then realise with the gloom it’s impossible to read at any distance. Laying it held against my side. I think to just leave until.

“You would reap the rewards of others, stealing the pride owed someone else. False, I name you. False! Yes! That you are” another indicating crooked finger. Beckoning me close.

Without intent my leaden steps leave me before Mags. Now completely silhouetted from all light. She stands as a darkness before me.

“ you may hand me this book of locks , now” with an imperious click. all at once and involuntary I lay the book in the shadowed upturned palm. The thing most precious to me, my waking nightmare and only hope in solving is my salvation. In the hand of ‘Mad’ bloody ‘ Mags’.

Could this day get any stranger. Asking myself to foresee the future. I’ve gone round the bend it’s official. As I gather the screws I have remaining, I steel my resolve to take back the book. Push past and leave to do what needs doing. Resolved.

Still I stand, unmoving. inaction and immobility. Gnaw at me. Move, Josten!

In the shadowed recesses of my shade stands mags. From silhouetted outline and backlighting. She simple runs a finger down the book of many locks spine.

The book is thrust into my stomach.

With a low snicker, to a quiet chuckle, mags chortles, then begins to laugh. Truly and deeply from the soul. The type of laughter that can’t be forced. Can not be replicated it is a spontaneous moment. That bleeds into my soul with a shameful self centred concern.

As a thousand questions explode. foremost is she laughing at me? I leave “ mad mags” to laugh it up. Sliding by I exit into the street. To the sound of trailing laughter.

That sound, cutting through into the very centre of my core. Still heard long after distance negates it possibly being audible. Mags has not been seen out of our borough in living memory.

As I leave the Stink, where we are at home. Among the many colloquial names it’s most apt.

Mags joyous derision of me still setting my teeth on edge. I walk on, head up eyes down.
Cursory glances at people passing never more then momentary. There’s an allowance made for attempting to recognise your fellows. A deep stare will lead to trouble faster then a blink. So glance, look away.

A lot can be done in that glance. Your sized up, judged, evaluated and in my case usually dismissed out of hand. My clothes too shabby, my carriage marking me as a local. Not worth the attempt. My poverty wrapping me in a protection that can not be easily bought.

I navigate my home borough with all its twists and turns. Avoiding dead end cul de sacs.

The obvious thorough fares are safest, of course. Heavy foot traffic leaves all safe among the masses either marching to, met the other way by those dragging themselves exhausted from.

Occasional grumbled greetings are heard. Bone weary news of the day for those who toil there days away to those who take there roles by night.

All these greetings randomly layering over each other. Creating a general buzz of activity.
Gathering in pairs as Josten passes,

“Watch out by the docks, sea wolves are at it again”

“ not carousing tonight Jeb, I have a lead on steady work”

A meaty thud of good spirited recognition and Josten is past the first pair.

A sanctimonious older couple gathered smack bang in the centre of the walkway,

“Dippers in the holy sanctuary” says one

“what’s next! where can we feel safe now.” Says the other

“Seems nothing is sacred anymore”replies the first

Many headshakes are seen to be exchanged and again Josten is past.

Crossing to his destination.

Home.

The streets off of the thoroughfare here are familiar beyond words. They simply close around him and for the first time in a while he simply fits. No artifice and no pretence. Hand to glove, it just is.

Passing old Zak’s bakery, closed until morning. When like him and his dough, both will rise before the sun. Turning into the narrow cut through between old Zak’s and the now boarded and shuttered remains to a multitude of not forgotten, never that.
At best misplaced memories.

The old scents are faded, the store starting to look more a husk of its former familiarity.

It drops inside Josten the depth of his emptiness over the sight.

“It’s only an empty store now” he mutters to himself

Trailing his hand along the wall within reach thoughtlessly. Old habits dying harder then the want to reminisce. Putting it away he pulls his hand back. Pockets it and finally arrives into the back alley.

As back alleys go it’s well kept. With old Zak’s ovens running the vents behind his shop are a much sought refuge to those sleeping rough. The warmth more then likely to have kept both Josten and his aim for tonight’s excursion alive.

Normally found keeping the chancers at bay from his gangs warm nook behind Zak’s.

Nobody is visible at a glance.

“Rast! You here?” He speaks into the shadows

Chook! The sudden sound of something sliding into place. Not by Zak’s at all. Off to his right. Where Josten glanced but has been avoiding since finding it clear.

The rear of was once his fathers shop.

Turning to face the past. All is similar to old remembrances, a lesson taught there. A game played there. Rushing and surging Josten tries to dam the flood of memories.

Looking on the rear exterior the light mounted above he back door illuminating the alley. Blinding the casual viewer his fathers back door. No, Josten thinks his former back door.

Now just number 86 Tanners lane. Is shrouded not in darkness but occluded by brightness elsewhere.

As intended, so as the shops rear door unbolts and swings inwards.

All is silhouetted from Jostens sight, before he can bring his hand to shield his vision from glare and be able to make sense of the gloom. A voice emanates out of the shadows.

“Come in, quickly!”

Warily stepping into the fall of light, blinded. Till emerging beyond its radiance the back door becomes slowly visible.

“ Rast” Josten utters weakly

“Quick! Now!”

Josten hastens through the threshold till he is again, once more in the back room of 86 Tanners lane. Fondly familiar and yet all at once vaguely alien.

The space having undergone the mandatory changes of new usage.

With a creak and thud, the door slams home behind Josten. Many sliding bolts still present from the former owners purposes and then some new additions also.

At last the bar is laid into the brackets and Josten at once realises he is now locked in, with an unknown figure and his untold memories.

The figure with back turned, taps down on the bar that is set and housed in the bracket. A double check of a secure fit. Turning the person comes to be seen.

A burly young man. Not much older then Josten himself. Yet with more a care worn mark to him. It’s all around the eyes a certain hostile note of weariness. It’s more apparent as the figure turns to address Josten.

“Follow, this way” with a wave he heads into the shops living space. Located to the middle of the ground floor.

Furnishings and old items lay misplaced as if countless memories have been turned on their head. Scattered all about, the armchair where he learned to read at his parents knee. The foot rest he would use as a chair while later practicing his fathers craft over many hours.

Scattered here and there all, a memory here and a dream unfulfilled there. His life like so much furniture lays discarded all around him.

The burly figure in shirt sleeves and braces. Heads directly to the stairs, climbing doggedly. The sounds of many mornings and more nights traversing. Coming to his ears.
The squeaky middle steps that always announced his late night excursions to all asleep.

The steps more worn, the squeaks more pronounced. New but old and gladly alien.

Following Josten cannot help but lay his hand on the finial at the bottom bannister.

Trailing his hand over hand polished railing and up . The nicks and marks that each hold a story all there own.

Mock Sword fights to angry moments during loss. All hit him with a weight of remberering. The past a physical force pushing against his minds barriers. Still damping it down he refocuses on the figure trudging up before him.

The stooped and tired carriage that asks questions in and of itself.

Why dies one so young, walk with such a worn and tired tread? Josten muses to himself

Upwards and onwards passing the bedroom corridor and up again.

To the top most floor.

Only a few memories await him here. Having been out of bounds only quick missions to sneak a peak come back. Neither fond nor endearing. Easily put aside.

The attic having undergone a few alterations. Harder to tell for lack of familiarity with this space as with the rest of 86 Tanners lane.

Both front and rear windows shuttered and guarded. With waiting guards at both there protectors. Watching Josten enter. Nonplussed at best.

Readily measured and discarded as any level of threat.

They continue to stare into the middle distance, but the posture shows a quiet readiness.

Alert but at ease.

The sentry that preceded Josten. Heads over to the new installation, that of a desk. A large ornate desk that has seen much ware.

Stopping to whisper towards the side of the chair that is turned. The chair rocks as words are exchanged. A quick visible flick of a wrist sets the guard to retreat. Back across and passing Josten without a glance he leaves. Retreating footsteps and the stairs squeak.

Put the guard out of hearing and for Josten momentarily out of mind.

All attention fixed on the silent seated figure.

Without turning a familiar voice rings around the room.

“ so your alive. “ a long pause and as the chair slowly turns

“Why have you come back?”

Eyes following hands that enfold one atop the other before him. Resting on the desks surface. Looking beyond and up above a familiar face.

Alike and different all at once. No care free smile, that knowing glint snubbed out of the eyes. Strangely suspicious a glare regarding Josten as he stands there.

Feeling the weight of those piercing eyes. Josten starts to grow restless and fidget until

“Hello Rast. It’s been a while. How are things?”

No movement from the seated figure this man who wears Rast’s face. Not a breath is drawn.

Silence reigning, as it starts to gnaw at Josten. The pause between breaths stretches on.
Until with a deep exhalation and an almost inaudible

“hmmm”

Rast sits back, placing hands palms down, shoulder width apart before him as if to make to rise.
“ let’s avoid this small talk and cut to the chase” as Rast’s right hand moves and fingers drum a tired rhythm on the table.

Before Josten can make a comment to assure him of his sincerity

“ what! Do you need from me Josten?”

No reunion, no back slapping and swapping of old close encounters. There is neither time nor desire to indulge in the past. So steadying his breath and organising his thoughts Josten baldly states

“ I need help.” The last word coming out weak and soft.

“You’ve come here? To me? To ask for my help?” Slowly said and rising in volume. Not a shout or a yell just an increase in volume as the situation dawns on Rast.

Those eyes, those ever discerning eyes. Take in at a glance all that can be said of Josten, his appearance, his carriage, his demeanour. Looking away to find him lacking so.

With a shake of the head. Rast reorganises his thoughts and reorients his intention.

“ so,” a deep exhale

“What favour have you come to ask ? What help do you need?”

The drumming starts up again. Almost setting Josten to a tempo and propelling him to answer.

Floundering for the right words. Not having the courage to utter the wrong ones. Josten pulls out the book of many locks from inside his clothes where it was secreted. Holding it before him to explain. Without intent showing Rast all he need to know.

“Ahh” while Rasts right hand drums it’s staccato rhythm. His left hand moves to his chin and briefly after stroking it, Rast pulls it away and shows emotion for the first time that of annoyance. A habit long sought to be lost.

“Alright, I’ll swap you! A favour, for a favour” all said with hands palm up as if in open offering.

Jostens emotions run from, excitement and hope, then to skepticism until with a gut wrenching drop the weight of the interchange brings him to concern.

“What do you need me for Rast?” Sweating palms clutching his book of many locks.

Clutching it tight to his chest he watches closely this new Rast. Hoping for a tell or sign of intent.

With a quick dismissive gesture Rast waves it away as nothing more then a fly. Making his wants seem insignificant. The knowing smile starts to emerge on Rasts face before its stifled. No more then a quirk of knowing. There and gone.

As Rast returns his face to stillness.

“How long, have we known eachother Joz?” Again open palms greet this comment.

“ long as, I well. As long as I can remember!” Josten finds he wants to win back Rasts good opinion. Inadvertently stepping closer to Rast. The guards and audience all at once start to fall away. As if they were alone chatting as in, of old.

“ long time. Exactly!” Rast rises and comes around the desk standing before Josten. Not in haste or out of hostility. To Jostens mind the final reserves of held back caution. Are not so much pulled away. They are eking away before him.

Rast leans back, perching onto his desk top. Crossing arms before him.

“So what do you need?” all said more quietly and with an earnest intent. Almost as if the Rast of old, still cares through into this new version.

Josten answers more at ease now

“ I know how to open locks, this book for some reason won’t budge. You remember. . .”
Looking around to realise the intimacy of this moment doesn’t mean they aren’t still in company.

“ you can say what you like. Not a word will be said by anyone here. Trust that!”
punctuated with a pointed finger towards Jostens chest. Yet all said with a tone about it of real honesty.

So Josten continues to say as he did
“Well you remember how we got by way back when. I KNOW, how to pick locks.” Not menacing to raise his voice yet the emphasis is there before he can hold it back.

After uncrossing his arms Rast tamps down with his hands the emotion and tries to calm Josten.

“we,WE both know at times we would have gone without a crust if you didn’t know how.” Rast indicates them both with back and forth gestured pointing.

Rast continues with
“I’ll, have someone look at your practice book tonight. Alright?” With a resounding
“CLICK” all is set into motion.

The man standing guard by the rear window taps a sequence and a series of knocks comes back. With this done the rearward windows guard peeks out of the shutters by manipulating a single unconnected slat. Nods to himself and proceeds to work the bolts and catches that have kept it set till now. Pulling it wide.

Josten sees the window of the rear window raise and this newest members fingers drag the window up enough to allow entry.

One foot enters lightly booted and almost silently meets the floor. With a swift motion they pass there body through and stand before all the attics occupiers.

Almost head to foot in black. Black and scuffed boots that end just below the knee. With many fastenings back and forth crisscrossing the surface. Are the most visible part of the attire of this diminutive figure. A cloak that should have bound the figure in entry has dropped to conceal there identity. Shapeless. Wearing a deep hood, the light in the room doesn’t seem able to reach to highlight a face.

The only mark of its knowing lies in the gleam, that of eyes. The colour unknown at this remove. Yet never still. They are looking, searching and darting back and forth. Till they rest on Rast. There they never waiver but remain. As if awaiting Rast next move.

Wordless the focus of the eyes remain and as Rast quickly sequences through a set of complex hand signals. The eyes follow and read these signals with ease. Josten only knows this as a silent dip to the head. The book is passed to the mystery figure and they are on there way to exit as they had entered out into the night.

“WAIT!” Josten pleads.

“ where are you taking my book?” He asks as he makes to move towards the figure leaving.
I
Without notice and hand rests onto Jostens shoulder. Not to hurt but firmly placed to Restrain him from moving. Heedless the figure exits and is gone. All is quickly made secure again. Josten turns to look along the hand restraining him. A once rough hand, made softer but never to be said to be soft. A paired ring encompassing both of the smallest fingers of the hand. Making two unified as one at the knuckle. A sign of an effort to grace that Josten didn’t realise Rast would care for or emulate.

The signet indented and unreadable at this proximity.

He looks back along the hands arm and at Rasts face. A severe look that of old warnings sits upon it. Slipping to a shake and pulling Josten around to him. Rasts face eases to say

“ the book is in safe hands. Have no doubt” a wry chuckle escapes Rast without intention. An almost nervous chuckle.

“But. . .” Josten begins

“ have a care Joz, not all of my friends are friendly” the old adage from a bygone era sticks to Jostens mind. The old way of saying not all can be trusted. Never to the fullest.

Josten wasn’t interested in the why it was said. The fear associated with the only other time it was uttered and heard by him.

Thoughts, memories, fear and pain. All war to be foremost in his mind. Lost to all around him as he submerges into the past. A rush of blood and a distant thud. There are no floodgates here. This memory comes and goes as it pleases.

The smell of smoke starts to drift into his senses. When with a
“CLAP” the pain of the hit brings him around, as he starts to surface

The follow up solidifies him back in to the now.

A third clears his head and gives him his wits. Raising hands to protect himself.
All at once he comes back to himself. Dazed, confused and with a jaw ache. Realising he is laying on the ground. He attempts to roll to spot the blood pooling in his mouth. He’s attempts are arrested. Looking beyond the shield of his hands that he had flung up automatically. He sees Rast straddling him with hand raised for a fourth or maybe more so as to slap to help Josten. The bitter tang of copper and the rising blood to the left side of his face tell him more then he need ask.

“ I’m, I’m alright Rast” turning his head to let the collected bloody spittle pool out onto the flooring.
“I’m back, I’m here. can you let me up.”

With a rattle and a tread resounding through Jostens prone form. Rast stands again.

Looming over Josten. He reaches out a hand. The gesture so familiar. The look on his face, throughout, anything but.

It disappears as Josten rises. Could it have been a disgusted look and why that look.
Jostens addled mind can not make sense, Nor does he have the wherewithal to attempt to do so.

As the sudden rush of blood leaves his face. He holds onto Rast as an anchoring point but before Josten is ready to orientate himself fully the anchor is removed. Josten sways but keeps his balance and the last of his shredded dignity intact.

All around him as he takes in his surroundings are armed men. The look they give him now. Anything but disregarded as not worth mentioning. They are staring with intent, wariness and a sight Josten hasn’t seen in years perceiving him, of all people. Fear.

“How bad was it?” Josten asks sluggishly, the surge of emotions and unknown exertion leaving him exhausted. Bone weary as aches and pains make themselves known.

Rast who has partially turned away is gently cupping his chin in his left. A very thoughtful expression, all at once he comes back to himself. The hand returns to his side with alacrity and as he returns to look on Josten. His right gestures a repeat circle all while he says

“ you know, the usual. You screamed, charged and I fear you’ve busted Dal’s arm.”

With a motion he parts the waiting armed members all around. From the gap Josten notices a man seated on the floor. He is bracing his left arm across his chest all while he stems the blood from his nose with his right.

As Josten attempts to move towards the gap it immediately closes again. As the ranks reassert themselves. A weak word is all Josten can do

“ I am sorry. Very, sorry” dry rubbing his face he turns back to Rast,

“ wait my book! Where has my book gone?” Tapping his secret pocket within his clothes. Finding it missing and all at once his panic starts to rise.

“ it couldn’t be in safer hands” Rast replies “ you can trust that”

“ are you, sure?” Josten weakly asks

“ Absolutely, you will have your book back in a single turning” Rast is moving around outside the cordon of armed figures surrounding Josten until, after a few moments

“Orders!” A loud bellow in the closeness of the attic. The echoes barely finishing resounding when

“Resume stations” the cordon breaks and at once men hop to. Some leaving down the stairs, one each to the rear and front window through and out.

“Send down to Double Guard duty!” A last man leaves in haste.

The shock of the sounds leave Josten standing dumb. Till the last man to leave returns with a number of men. All round the room the men take up stations next to the guards who were already present. Cudgels and batons now rest in hands.

The scrutiny wracks the exhausted Jostens brain, he should be wary but is beyond the ability to know what’s best.

Time is passing Josten by, all while he stands unmoving. All he can do is fight the surging waves of exhaustion.

Preparing to speak, he stops as the dull sounds of a last member climbing the treads into the attic. A grizzled older man, grey haired long enough to have length but tied back with a headband. Head down the lighting hides his face. Cradled before him seems to be weirdly a very short stool. Oddly short in fact.

He enters onto the landing and places the stool before Rasts desk.

Standing before Jostens stooped form. He places gentle hands on Jostens right elbow and left shoulder. Without intent and a gentle hand he breaks the silence simply stating.

“Sit!” The tone brooks no disagreement and Josten has not the wherewithal to do so either.

Josten finds rest in his awkward seating arrangement.

The older man holds onto Josten. Providing support and keeping him upright.

He Is grateful to the newcomer.

“Thank you” he slurs, as he attempts to stifle the yawn rising in him.

Rast seated once again behind his desk. Sitting very Straight, rigid almost a completely different demeanour. As wiped as Josten is, it’s night and day. All business, no glimmer of the old Rast just matter of fact dealings.

Even his tone is curt and crisp as he states the facts. For who’s benefit Josten isn’t sure

“My friend will return your book soon” the fingers rise almost to drum the tabletop again. The hand is withdrawn and interlacing the fingers each hand cups the other. Sitting before Rast. Serious and all business. Josten would liken it, to being handled by a senior. Not an old friend.

“ when my, associate, returns. Then we can discuss the favour owed!”

Josten far flown from alert, understands the words. Comprehension and ability to react are long gone. Dumbly he nods agreement and hopes that will amount to an answer.

Stooped and drooping. Hands hold him upright. The darkness between blinks becomes more pronounced, slow half lidded cuts announce the scenes around him. Drifting, dropping until all present sense fades to a weighty darkness.


He starts to come back to himself in stages, in and out. Out and back in. Blinks seem to time lapse what he sees about him. People move around him and appear over him within a momentary closing of his eyes. A fog pervades his mind. Disconnected to that around him. Parts of sentences come to him, making no sense. . .

“What’s the matter with him?”

Huh where am I he thinks

Eyes close and figures reorganise themself around him

What

Where

Fade out

“(Inaudible murmurs). . the madness, what brought it o. . .

Madness?

Fade out and drop deep down.


Rouse to the surface with more presence of mind

“ as ten men, unstoppable. A weapon we. . .

Weapon?

Down and up the figures still situated as before

“. . . to be trusted! Used th. . .”

Jostens brain is fighting to recall itself in full

Weapon? What weapon?

Wracking his brain for answers he misses something

. . . “Settled then?”

Settled? What is?

“Then we are agreed?”

Dry rubbing his face to shake the last of the fog from his brain

. . . “Awake again”

As he looks the grey haired man and Rast seperate. A figure leaves. Rast comes to Jostens side.

The grey haired man turns and in the light is visible.

The headband holding back his hair. Doubles as his eye patch. Seated over his left eye. Below and above are the marks go shiny scar tissue. Still pink in colouration. Livid and angry. The scars below the patch pull his mouth up into a quirk. As if a wry joke had been told. The remaining eye shows no humour a stern watchfulness. He doesn’t look as much as he drinks in the scene. No warmth touches his gaze
.
Judging by the words that follow, he was less then nothing.

“ UP!” a hand raises. Josten lost in his thoughts sits, still.

“NOW” the barking command echoes in Jostens ears. Still it has the desired effect. Setting him to rise.

The general stiffness restricts him as he does rise. Leading to him getting up, definitely slower then expected.

“Come on!” More gently said but with much potency. As if the disapproval of this man, has to be avoided.

Rast hesitates by Jostens side. Waiting and watching.

Finally standing but unsteady on his feet. He takes in the room they are in.

(Work in progress to be continued)