two strays adrift in the wide world

The first man’s kneecap shatters with a well-placed kick and Rycan lunges forward as the man descends to the ground in pain, getting an arm around his neck and breaking it with a solid twist. As the man goes limp in his arms, Rycan hefts him up and twists around to face the rest of the group he has been assailing, using the dead man as a shield for the blade and arrow headed straight for him. No one in this group is a magic user—thank fuck. They are a pain in the ass for someone like him who relies on his fists and physical prowess to get him through situations like this.

To set things straight, Rycan does not have anything against any of these people personally. Perhaps the person who put out the hit for them on the grimy noticeboard of a tavern does but to Rycan, this is just a job. He works, he earns money, he feeds himself. That is how it has been for Rycan for as long as he can remember. If he does not work, he has no coin for food or any of the other things he needs to eke out a decent living going from place to place by himself.

He has tried foraging for food in the wild before when he first started out on the road, but some of the things he ate off the trees and bushes made him sicker than it was worth looking for them. Some of the trees and bushes that grew close to the cities and towns were also owned by the wealthy and they had groundskeepers and dogs to chase off people who came too close to them. Eventually, with time and effort, Rycan got stronger, strong enough to take up simple jobs and then the harder ones that earned him more money, which were riskier and required knocking heads together and breaking bones. Even so, it is a way of living and one that he has made himself good at.

Once Rycan makes short work of the group of three, he rifles through their clothes for the stolen documents he was supposed to retrieve, apparently taken from the office of someone wealthy and important in town. He also relieves them of their coin pouches—not like they will be needing them anymore—and takes the food he finds in their packs. He can sell their weapons at a pawnshop and he goes from body to body, lifting their swords and bows from their still bodies, when he sees something move in the corner of his eye.

Rycan straightens up immediately, hefting the crossbow he has in his hands, the wood still warm from where its former wielder had been clutching it just moments before. Rycan’s blood is still pumping from the fight he just had, his heart racing, his senses on high alert, his body all too ready to react to something, anything coming at him. When he looks at what had moved, he sees another person at the end of the quiet alleyway he had cornered his targets in. Rycan could shoot them, get an arrow in their leg so they can’t run, and use the fresh injury as an opportunity to close the gap between them.

The next thing Rycan registers is how the newcomer looks, standing in the mouth of the alleyway, a lithe figure gripping the strap of their pack. They have warm brown skin and long brown hair tied up into a high ponytail that cascades down their back in tresses that seem to capture the sun and Rycan blinks because he swears he sees the colours of daybreak nestled in their hair. They are an elf from the looks of it, male although his dressing reminds Rycan of the village girls with their homemade skirts and aprons and ribbons. Grey eyes stare at him across the short distance, wide and scared, and Rycan stares back at him, his stance wide and crossbow trained on him. He can reach him from this distance, with an arrow first and then on his legs.

“I was watching you,” the strange elf says, his voice steady even though Rycan can see his grip tighten on the strap of his pack and the unmistakable fear in the depths of his grey eyes. Rycan listens, cocking his head to the side as he tries to place his accent. It is not one he is familiar with or has heard before in Valora.

“I don’t mean to intrude but you’re strong. I saw how you got rid of those people quickly, even though you are just one person,” the elf continues. “I want to learn from you. How to be strong too.”

That comes as a surprise to Rycan. Usually people didn’t want much to do with him, if not because of how he looks then because of his attitude—too irritable, too prone to anger, and too quick to rely on his fists instead of words. And this is a strange request. Rycan knows that he is strong. He made himself this way and will continue getting stronger until no one can touch him. But what does the elf mean that he wants to learn how to be strong from Rycan? Does he want Rycan to teach him how to punch someone’s lights out?

“You don’t have to do much,” the elf adds. “But if it’s okay, can I come with you?”

Yet another strange request. Why would he want to come with him? Rycan gets by well enough, taking jobs where and when he can so that he can have decent enough lodgings and good enough food, but he doesn’t stay in one place for too long. The stares get to him and the whispering too, people muttering to each other about how strange he looks for a dragonborn of Valora. It makes him feel on edge, irritability churning within him in a way that demands to be let out, which usually ends with someone getting punched.

But the elf doesn’t know any of this. He is simply asking and Rycan doesn’t quite know how to respond to him. He supposes that the elf will come up with his own answers to those questions. It is entirely up to him whether or not he wants to come with Rycan. Rycan won’t stop him. What is important to Rycan now is that the elf doesn’t seem to be hostile or related to the three crumpled bodies on the ground.

Rycan lowers the crossbow and he sees the elf’s shoulders relax a fraction. He is positioned at the mouth of the alleyway, poised to run at the first sign of danger. He seems like a fleet-footed sort of fellow and Rycan clocks the quarterstaff slung over his back. Some kind of spellcaster, he wagers, but he isn’t sure what kind.

Rycan gathers up the last of his loot and then heads towards the mouth of the alleyway. The elf steps aside as Rycan walks past him, putting space between Rycan and himself. As Rycan walks away from the alleyway, he hears footsteps behind him, following him through the winding, dingy streets.

—

Night has fallen by the time Rycan reaches the rickety, squat building where his rented room is. He stomps up the equally, if not even more, rickety stairs, skipping the step where he knows the wood is dodgy and moving along the walkway until he reaches his room. He pulls a key out from his pocket and unlocks the door, kicking the bottom of it so that it unsticks as he shoves it open. Then, he manoeuvres his way through the doorway carrying the new swords and crossbow he had just picked up. He doesn’t close the door behind him and after a moment of silence, he hears creeping footsteps enter his room, the door squeaking on its hinges as his new shadow closes the door behind him.

There is only one bed in the room Rycan rents and he isn’t feeling generous enough to offer it up to his new guest. He deposits the weapons he picked up in a corner of the room. The coin from his quarry’s pouches go into his own. He sheds his cloak and drapes it over the back of a chair, picking up his flint to light a candle so he can see what he is doing in the dark of his room. The food he retrieved from his targets’ packs goes onto the table where he inspects them. It is nothing more than run-of-the-mill fare for travellers on the go, hard-crusted bread and cheese, but he is pleased to discover a hunk of ham and quarter of a bottle of ale along with them. He also finds two oranges but he sets them aside on the table for now, more interested in the rest of the food.

That is his dinner settled for the night and Rycan thinks about his next day’s plans as he scarfs down the food. He can drop off the important documents he retrieved at the guild tomorrow and sell the weapons while he is at it. He has nothing in particular to do after that so he thinks about picking up another job, amassing funds before he moves on to the next place. Besides, it gives him something to do instead of getting restless and bored in his room.

There is also the matter of his guest, who has barely made a sound since he entered Rycan’s room. From the sound of it, he seems to have claimed a corner of Rycan’s room for himself. The candlelight doesn’t quite reach that far but Rycan knows that elves can see in the dark, unlike him. He doesn’t know what to do with him yet and there is always the possibility that the elf might just leave on his own at some point.

Rycan finishes up his dinner and then, by candlelight, finally turns his attention to himself and his clothes. He is mostly uninjured, save for a few scrapes and bruises and a shallow gash in his arm where a blade had grazed him. The gash in his arm he can deal with. However, there is a matching gash in his sleeve which is stained through with blood. There is blood on the rest of his shirt too, Rycan realises once he takes it off and squints at it properly. The man he had used as a human shield had probably bled all over him after taking those blows from his comrades.

Rycan scowls. Well, he isn’t doing laundry now and he has to pay a seamstress at the market to patch up the gash in his sleeve. He tosses the shirt on the table and turns to inspect the weapons he dumped on the floor, gauging how much he can get for each of them.

The rest of the night passes uneventfully. Before Rycan puts out the candle and lies down for the night, he remembers that there is another person in the room here with him. The elf had been so quiet the whole time that he had forgotten about him. Rycan can’t see him in his dark corner of the room and he doesn’t feel like approaching him with the candle in hand. For a moment, Rycan just looks in the elf’s direction, straining his eyes to make out a silhouette or movement. But he sees nothing even though he knows that he is there.

Rycan blows the candle out. He knows that even in the dark, the elf can see him as he gets into bed and pulls the blanket up over himself. He shuts his eyes and listens for the sound of breathing in the same room as him. He thinks he hears it, for a moment, as he drifts off to sleep.

—

The guild pays him for retrieving the documents and for silencing the thieves who had stolen them. Rycan doesn’t know what is in those documents or why these people had wanted to steal them but he doesn’t care. It is not his business to pry and he knows from experience that knowing the affairs of the wealthy opens up a whole new world of complications. Even worse if they are of noble blood. No, it is better to keep his head down and keep moving, to not get noticed by anyone at all.

Rycan sells the weapons at a pawnshop, haggling fiercely with the pawnbroker until the old man relents and tacks on an extra silver to the amount he gives Rycan, if only to get him out of his shop. The extra coin puts Rycan in a good mood as he stops at a roadside store for lunch, eating his way heartily through a bowl of beef stew. It is only when he passes a seamstress’s shop in the market does he remember the forgotten shirt he had tossed on the table, bloodied and torn in one sleeve, which he needs to deal with. He will have to scrub to get the bloodstains out and not for the first time, Rycan considers swapping out his current wardrobe for clothes that are all black in colour. Something to consider for the future, he thinks glumly as he heads back to his lodgings where laundry awaits.

This morning when Rycan woke up, he found that the elf who had followed him home yesterday was gone. He had left his bedroll behind in the corner he occupied last night, which made Rycan think that was a sign that he intended to return, but he had taken his pack with him. Nothing else in the room seemed out of place, except that Rycan thought the single orange left on the table seemed a little lonelier than it did the day before when it had a friend. He then had the lone orange for breakfast, peeling the skin into shreds and tossing it into the trash before heading out for the day.

When Rycan returns to his lodgings now, there is still no sight of the elf, his bedroll untouched. Rycan turns to grab the bloodied shirt he left on the table only to find that it is not there. He frowns. He is sure that he left it there last night and there is no sign of it anywhere else in the small room.

The door creaks open behind Rycan and he whips around, fists at the ready, only to see his guest from last night peeking out from behind the door, his grey eyes wide and wary again, frozen behind the door for a moment as Rycan faces him. Rycan puts his fists down slowly, unclenching his fingers, and the elf opens the door slowly to let himself in.

In his hands, he holds what appears to be Rycan’s shirt, which no longer looks bloodstained. It even looks whiter than it was before and Rycan squints at it, wondering if it is the same one. The elf shakes it out, the crisp white material looking pristine as it unfurls in his hands, and hands it over to Rycan, who takes it, somewhat bemused. It smells a little herby in a subtle, pleasant way and the bloodstains are all gone. Rycan runs a hand over the sleeve where he remembers the gash was and finds that it has been neatly patched up with a tight row of stitches.

“There was a hole there so I fixed it,” the elf explains as Rycan runs his thumb over the stitches.

That saves him a trip to the seamstress and it is a far neater job than Rycan would have managed by himself. He turns his shirt over in his hands, thinking for a moment before he says, “Thanks.”

The elf smiles at him and it looks nice on him, the warmth reaching into the depths of his grey eyes. His hair is aglow again, the sunrise streaks spreading on the underside of his cascading ponytail, starting with a bright morning glow at the top before transitioning to orange in-between skies and then a deep night colour at the tips. Rycan wonders how his hair works, his fingers itching to poke at the strands.

“I didn’t introduce myself yesterday but my name is Kuya,” the elf says.

“I’m Rycan,” Rycan replies.

Kuya nods. “Nice to meet you, Rycan.”

Rycan nods back.

The conversation dies then as Kuya heads back to his corner and Rycan watches curiously as Kuya unloads his pack. Two or three pears roll out onto the floor, accompanied by a handful of hazelnuts and chestnuts. Lastly, Kuya empties blackberries into a wooden bowl he produces from his pack. He then takes out a round loaf of bread and cuts a slice from it, eating it with the fruits and hazelnuts.

Rycan turns around so he stops staring, folding his shirt and stuffing it into a drawer. He wonders if that is all Kuya has for lunch. It seems healthy enough but Rycan thinks he would still be hungry if that was his lunch. With thoughts of food on his mind, Rycan heads back out of the room again and into the afternoon.

He takes up a job loading up wagons for the stores around the market square and gets paid, spending it on dinner at a decent tavern where he orders lamb and potatoes drowned in a thick brown sauce. It is a hearty meal and when Rycan heads out into the street, it is well into the night and the stars have come out.

When he returns to his room for the second time that day, his new roommate is tucked away in his dark corner, fast asleep from the looks of it. Rycan goes to the table and lights the candle, ready to clean up and undress for the night. He pauses, seeing a small, strange shape at the edge of the table where two oranges once sat the night before and brings the candle closer to inspect it. The candlelight reveals a pear, sitting upright and perfectly non-threatening. Rycan remembers it from Kuya’s stash this afternoon.

Rycan thinks for a moment and then heads towards his new roommate on quiet feet. He crouches down and places a wrapped parcel beside their bedroll, containing a sausage roll he was intending to have for his breakfast the next morning.

That done, he heads back to the table and continues his night routine before blowing the candle out and lying back in bed, listening for the sound of someone breathing in the room with him before he drifts off to sleep.