白千落

Original Fics by antagonists

In the winter, Jadestone Village is still an affable blend of quiet cheer and warm herbal cider. This area doesn’t usually see much snow until much later in the season, but the storms are early this year. White trickles down from the skies, telling of the heavier snowfall to come. He’s fully prepared to trek down the whitened roads, tugging his scarf around his chin, when a small, gnarled hand clasps his wrist.

“Inside, young man,” says the elderly lady trying to tug him indoors where it is warm and safe. “You can leave in a few hours, but it’s best to wait out the storm.”

“I’m used to the snow,” Cheon says. “I grew up in the mountains.”

“You will freeze!” the woman takes one look at his casual attire and harrumphs, and with strength belying her size, hauls him through the doorway. There are already many others inside the large public space, most of them grateful for the shelter, others wearing disgruntled expressions. He looks down at the woman again to protest when she shoves a mug of warm cider into his hands.

“I don’t—” he starts to say, but the woman rushes off to deliver drinks to the other guests in the room. Some of them stare at him, but most look away as soon as he glares back.

Cheon finds a relatively empty corner where he can still see out the windows, and sits to quietly sip at the drink. It is very sweet, and pleasantly warm. He would rather much be on the roads traveling, searching for his father, but this is a nice, if not unexpected, reprieve from the cold.

“She’s always been so kind to travelers, even when they are undeserving,” says a man to Cheon’s left. He’s dressed in rags and makes his presence small with hunched shoulders and bowed head. His hair is disheveled, fingernails dark with underside dirt. Someone homeless, Cheon guesses, and also someone who is quite thankful for the shelter he’s been provided. “Always giving, and reluctant to take payment. A blessing to those of us without homes.”

“She does this often?” Cheon asks.

“More so after the death of her husband, perhaps,” the stranger chuckles sadly. “Perhaps so she does not feel as lonely.”

“My condolences to her,” he says, and the man simply shrugs, hands still wrapped around the empty mug. Cheon offers the rest of his cider.

“You seem a stranger to these parts, boy,” the man continues, taking the offered cider and letting the drink sit idly in his hands. “No one here dresses so light for a winter storm this early.”

“I was born in the mountains,” Cheon replies.

“A dangerous place,” the man drawls, and drinks the cider noisily. “You must be a fighter, then, if you’re confident enough that you can travel through this weather without troubles. Think you could do our kind lady a little favor?”

When Cheon gives him a confused look, the man laughs. It isn’t a pleasant sound, especially with his rough, weathered voice, and Cheon does his best not to flinch. “You want me to do her a favor?”

“A few months ago,” the man says, “someone snuck out our lady’s heirloom without nobody knowing ‘bout it. ‘Twas something very dear, as it was one of the wedding gifts her late husband gave her. A delicate sculpture, carved from the finest of condensed soulstones. Never seen it myself, of course.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Cheon says suspiciously, and the man gives another wretched laugh.

“I’m the one who gave intel about it. I had a job then, but they got rid of me real quick,” he admits, and Cheon finds that he really dislikes the unrepentant, smug grin on the man’s face. He gestures to his lame foot. “I got injured, y’see.”

“So you would pass off your responsibility to a more capable stranger instead of apologizing to her,” Cheon frowns. “Rather ignoble.”

“You can kill me afterwards, if you like.”

“What is stopping me from telling her the truth here and now?”

“Nothing,” the man says, and he leans back a little. Suddenly the smugness is gone, replaced with weariness and a touch of regret. “Not a man good with words, see. ‘Tis how I got myself into bad business in the first place.”

Cheon considers the stranger for a bit, scrutinizing. “Tell me where it is.”

“Should be stashed in a home near Stillbrook Monastery,” the man sighs. He lifts the mug to drink more cider, but finds that it is already empty. “Small treasures from others were taken, too, so I’m sure you could smuggle out whatever fits your fancy.”

“I do not steal,” Cheon says coldly, and gets up to find a different place to sit. The man’s eyes follow him when he leaves hours later, and he ignores the lingering gaze as he steps out onto the glittering white roads.

He does not, by any means, want to break into anyone’s home, even if it is to retrieve stolen goods. Cheon goes to ask one or two guards to see if they are aware of any suspicious whereabouts, but retreats afterwards in fear that he will draw too much suspicion to himself. Going through the homes individually at night to draw less attention is looking more of a favorable option, but it would be a time-consuming task; breaking into multiple homes is considered a far greater offense, anyways.

He sits in a teahouse near the monastery, thinking, when he feels eyes on him. Not fond of the idea that someone is following him, Cheon quickly drops coin onto the table and exits.

“I know what you’re looking for,” someone says, sounding as though they’re speaking from a fair distance.

The tenor of the voice sounds like another boy around his age. Cheon looks around him, but cannot see anyone despite the daylight. It’s just barely sundown, though it feels as though he’s been waiting for the night for ages.

“Up here,” the boy repeats when it becomes obvious that Cheon cannot find him. Cheon looks up to see someone casually laying on the clay tiles of a roof, and hastily looks around to make sure no one can see him before clambering up with some difficulty. Still, he is only on the roof of the first floor, and the other boy has somehow gotten onto the third story.

“How did you get up there?” he asks, squinting. He is unable to make out any distinct features, except for perhaps a cocky smile. The boy’s body is cast into shadow with the sunset sky lit like fire behind him.

“You can ask me questions once you get up here,” the boy says cheerily, and disappears behind the edge.

It takes Cheon the better part of an hour to actually find a way to climb his way up. He initially tries to scale the flat walls in hopes his shoes will provide some grip, but almost falls quite badly on multiple occasions since the tiles are slippery with ice. Then he tries to jump and grab at the edge of the tiles, remaining unsuccessful. Eventually, he ventures far enough along the edge that he’s able to jump onto a thick branch of a tree, and just barely manages pulls himself back onto the roof. By this time, the sun has long since set and left a faint orange gradient over night blue.

He tries not to look over the edge; it’s a long way down.

“Wow,” the boy says, face upturned and eyes closed as he lounges along the middle length of the roof, dressed in simple dark clothing and leather shoes. A sword lays next to him, wrapped in worn black casing that looks like it has been freshly scrubbed clean. “You’re really dumb.”

“I’m not!” Cheon says out of habit, rubbing at his raw, swollen hands.

“Who takes an hour to climb up onto a roof?”

“Not everyone practices climbing onto roofs,” Cheon retorts. “Besides, it’s trespassing, just in case you didn’t know.”

“You’re trespassing too, y’know,” the boy says boorishly, and lifts a gloved finger when Cheon tries to protest. “Don’t you have anything to ask me?”

It takes him a while for him to remember why he’s up here in the first place, and not still waiting in the teahouse. Cheon thinks that he may actually prefer going back, but it would seem such a waste of his time and effort. That, and he feels like he would be losing some sort of unofficiated match to this person.

“You mentioned earlier that you know what I’m looking for,” he hesitates. “Do you?”

“Kinda hard not to know,” the boy snorts. “You look like you’re here to steal something, and there’s only one house here that has stuff worth stealing.”

Cheon blanches. “I’m not here to steal anything. I’m just—looking around.”

“Alright, sure,” the boy says, entirely unconvinced, “You seem the type to run from your rich pretty boy troubles. Someone blackmail you into doing their dirty work?”

“I wasn’t blackmailed,” Cheon seethes. “And I’m not a rich pretty boy.”

“Your clothes are easily worth a hundred gold coins,” the boy says, and slowly gets up onto his feet. It’s a bit disorienting now that Cheon has to look up for eye contact. Tan skin, dark eyes and hair. He looks like a commoner, but speaks like someone involved in less righteous affairs. Cheon doesn’t want to trust this boy. “Dunno what your business is here, but the house you’re looking to steal from is the one we’re standing on right now. Lord Yau has collected quite a number of things, I’ve heard. Third floor is his private chambers.”

“Who are you?” Cheon frowns at the name. He hasn’t heard it before, but it certainly sounds important enough. “And how do you know so much about this Lord Yau?”

The boy shrugs, and before Cheon can properly react, steps to the edge and leaps onto the nearby branch. “Part of the trade,” he calls over his shoulder, then continues to navigate adeptly through the branches and onto the ground. He waves to Cheon with a smile before turning his back. Cheon creeps to the corner of the roof to watch the boy retreat until his dark figure disappears past the monastery’s front gates.

Unwilling to climb down and back up again just to sneak inside, Cheon waits until nightfall before he attempts to open the door to the lord’s private chambers. He’s surprised to find that the door is unlocked, and even more surprised to see that Lord Yau is sleeping peacefully in his large bed.

Crawling closer, he’s quick to discover that Lord Yau isn’t sleeping, but is actually quite dead. Pale and gaunt, with the appearance of a rotting skull the longer Cheon stares. He lifts the blankets to see a gaping wound where the heart should be, and a pool of blood reddening the silk sheets and gold-embroidered robe. He recoils—the other boy—he must’ve been here as a hired assassin!

Cheon looks closer at the richly carpeted floor now that his eyes have adjusted, and sees a faint smear of blood from the entrance to the rest of the house that trails all the way to the foot of the bed. Lord Yau must’ve walked straight into his death, then been dragged into his bed to give the illusion of being asleep. It’s difficult to see the blood past the deep red of the carpet, so others may look past it.

He’s somewhat relieved that he won’t have to worry about Lord Yau waking to see him going through stolen goods, but Cheon is still uncomfortable with the knowledge that there is a dead body in the room. Hurrying through the cabinets, he searches for the statue the homeless man had spoken of, and nearly drops it in his hurry to stash it into his knapsack. He’d expected there to be more items in the cabinet, but some of them appear to have been stolen already.

The other boy’s doing, no doubt. Cheon is a bit perturbed that a thief and murderer could talk with him so nonchalantly.

Cheon gives the dead man and the stained floor a last lingering look before stepping out and shutting the door behind him. He heaves himself back onto the roof and wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers. The moon is bright in the sky, and he feels as though it’s accusing him of stealing although he’s really only taking something back to whom it belongs. He almost slips from the branches twice, and on the third time, fails to establish a good grip and ends up tumbling to the ground.

Heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears, Cheon clutches his knapsack to his chest and strains to hear any sort of movement towards him. Thankfully he hadn’t been too far up so he’s not badly injured, but it’s still hard to breathe with how suddenly the wind had been knocked out of him.

After verifying that the sculpture is still intact, Cheon counts to ten to calm himself down, and tries to very casually walk into the open. In the distance, the Stillbrook Monastery glows a garish red, painting the snow around it dark with color, and he’s reminded of the blood staining Lord Yau’s bedsheets. Cheon swallows and keeps walking. The monks there must be meditating, or praying. Somewhat similar to the monastery in Snowforest, where he has known nothing but peace and thin mountain air. He misses the monks there, wishes that they could offer him advice and guide him out of the mess he’s gotten himself into.

It feels as though a million different spirits are watching him, whispering cruel things, but Cheon keeps his fingers curled into fists, and marches through the snow as if there is nothing wrong. It only becomes easier to breathe once he has stepped past the front gates. He takes a few minutes to simply breathe in the cool winter air before beginning the journey back to Jadestone.

He will not find some place to rest for the night; it seems his nerves have gotten the better of him, and the idea of sleeping only brings back the memories of a richly-dressed corpse.

Cheon leaves Jadestone upon finding the same man and giving him the soulstone statue.

“I will not,” he says, “apologize on your behalf. That is your responsibility.”

The man bows deeply and takes the parcel with both hands. He looks no less tired, but there might be a hint of hope in his eyes. “You seem troubled, young boy.”

“It’s nothing,” Cheon says reflexively, and immediately feels terrible for the lie. “I hope you don’t do such terrible things again. She’s a kind person.”

The man is quiet for another moment as he considers Cheon. “How is Lord Yau?”

“It seems an assassin killed him,” Cheon says as evenly as he can. He turns away before the man can ask any more of him. “I trust you will apologize to the lady properly.”

“Thank you, boy,” the man calls after him.

He heads past Gloomdross Forest and to the north, having replenished his rations and already sick of staying in one place for too long. The Cinderlands are a warmer place than most during the winter, at least during the daytime. He’s grown to realize that traveling suits him, and it gives him better reach in the case he truly needs to find his father.

Once he’s within the Tomun Range, he finds a safe spot around the Sacred Tree’s shrine and sits, reaching inside his bag for some food.

“So you are running away,” says a boy, and the sudden sound of another voice has Cheon scrambling backwards. By the time he’s yanked his steel knuckles onto his hands and whirled around, the same boy from Stillbrook Monastery is watching him, casually leaning against the large stone lantern by the entrance. The fire barely lights up the shrine although it’s still daylight out, hidden by the trees as it is.

When he lunges, the boy steps to the side and avoids the punch. This continues for a series of kicks and jabs, all of which the boy evades with practiced ease. Normal people, even with some combat knowledge, wouldn’t be able to overcome the training Cheon has had in the mountains. Panic settles in the back of his mind; perhaps this boy has been hired to tail him.

“When you’re finished—” the boy says, dodging another kick. “Mind—continuing onto the—desert?”

Cheon steps back, panting. “I have no reason to trust someone who’s killed another.”

“We all have jobs to do,” the boy runs fingers through his hair, seemingly untired from their little scuffle, if one could call it that. His right eye, usually covered by his hair, glints in the light. He crosses his arms and leans back on a different lantern this time, since they’ve moved closer to the dark hollow beneath the tree. Something about his gait makes it very obvious that he’s used to locations like this, and Cheon immediately feels he’s at a disadvantage.

He’s used to the cold, hard rocks and ice of the north, not the softer loam of other lands. Without the harsh sunlight reflected off of snow, he doesn’t feel as though he can see in the darkness very well.

“Working as an assassin?”

“That’s a cruel label,” the boy shakes his head. “Mercenary is a bit nicer. Some of us only get paid after a good job. Well, not that you would understand.”

“I don’t trust you,” Cheon says, ignoring the last comment. He brushes the dirt from his knuckles and wriggles his hands out of the weapons.

“Fair.” A shrug. He doesn’t seem offended by the fact that he’s been accused of murder.

“Why are you following me?”

“Two is safer than one around these parts.”

“You’re talking about the rumors of revenants appearing in this area. Safety in numbers, is that it?”

“So you’re not as dumb as you look,” the boy grins. “There’s that, but a few undead don’t scare me. No, there’s something lurking about, but I dunno what it is.”

Cheon rolls his eyes and retrieves up his fallen dumpling to look at it a bit sadly. He considers putting it near the actual shrine as some sort of offering, but it’s whisked out of his hands by the stranger who insists on intruding his personal space. He tries not to pay too much attention to how the boy tears into the dirtied food like a starved dog. If he’s really into mercenary work to get simple blood money, it’s quite possible he won’t get proper payment half the time.

“What’s your name?” he asks, forgoing his own meal in favor of tying his rucksack firmly shut.

“Now you ask,” the boy says, mouth full. “It’s Tojin, by the way.”

“I’m Cheon,” Cheon replies, and flinches when Tojin mutters I know under his breath. “Don’t get in my way too much.”

Tojin grins sharply in response, and in the dim firelight, he looks extremely sinister. Cheon doesn’t dwell on it too much and steps toward the exit. There is only torchlight up ahead, and walking towards the flickering golden glow doesn’t feel as comforting as it should be with a stranger’s shadow next to his own.

Trivia

• Birthday: September 5th
• Just a tsundere, pure tsun.