Poisonous Fox

“... What happened to you, girl?” the man asked.

The young man looked on with a mix of both pity and hunger, while shifting in his seat away from where the man sat.

It was time to sell my story, not that I had one truly prepared, at least not to the full extent that I would have liked to. But I lacked knowledge of these peoples, of their customs, of their security protocols. It was hard to plan without that knowledge. Instead, it was better to remain flexible, to adapt, as the situation developed. Though, that was not to say that I had not planned at all.

Per that plan, I winced, turning my face downwards. I made a show of taking in my own pathetic state, confirming how I hoped that I was perceived.

Here I stood, with bare feet, blistered and filthy and raw, with torn and blood stained pants and tank-top, with a near destroyed jacket. Clearly, I was worse for wear. However, during these seconds of self-consideration, I realized I had made a mistake. I had come across as too chipper, too eager, far more energetic than a woman should have in my position. It was too late to drastically change my approach now though, however, small adjustments could be made.

“I…” I trailed off, before clearing my throat. “-bandits. I… they… I escaped.” I finished, aiming for a hidden sense of shame and desperation that a victim might have. At least, one in denial. I was unsure if I pulled it off, but a quick glance upwards through my bangs, and I saw that the younger of the two believed me.

“Bandits?” the man said thoughtfully, before standing up on the top of the wagon and peering about, perhaps more theatrically than proper. “I see none. Are you certain, girl?”

He was clearly still dissatisfied with my story. I would need to sell it a bit more.

“They…” I allowed myself to blush. “...might have been a different group, but it is what I thought.” I finished in a small and weak voice, befitting one in such dire straits as I appeared. If I played it right, I could make my previous mistake in attitude seem part of the story, as though I were overcompensating for a shameful indiscretion, which I knew criminals were wont to do. It should be believable, I thought.

However, instead of immediately buying my act, the man hopped down from the cart and approached, remaining wary, but circling me all the same.

After making a circuit, he asked a simple question, “Marked?”

It was no use hiding it, the intricate swirling tattoos were visible on my right wrist and hand. It might even serve in my favor.

I nodded.

He let out a heavy sigh. “Who do you belong to, then?”

My eyes widened. How did he know that? I barely managed to keep from moving my hand up towards my neck. There was no collar there. There was not. I twitched.

“Wh-what do you mean?” I asked.

“Marks aren’t free girl. Who’re you with, who’d you cross. What mess did you land yourself in, is it following you?”

“Father!” the boy protested.

I felt relief though. He did not mean ‘ownership’ as in slavery, well, not in the physical sense. He meant in the ‘indebted’ sense, which was far less literal, but still quite impactful.

“Boy! Think with your head. She’s in trouble, yes. But is she bringing it with her?” He gave me a weighty look. “And is she dangerous?”

His eyes glanced down towards my false hand. I shifted it a bit out of view and allowed myself to wince. It appeared he failed to recognize it for what it was, which made sense. The wyrkwik were largely unexpected this far north, and the infested had several well-defined traits which I lacked. Likely, he had come to a different conclusion concerning the false arm.

I could work with that.

“Well, just ask her!” the son said. “She’s in distress. Besides, a little thing like her couldn’t possibly be dangerous. Isn’t it our duty as men to stand up for the defenseless?”

The man grimaced. “Maybe. Maybe not. Marks change things boy, remember that.”

The weight of expectant gazes fell upon me.

My throat tightened, and words grew difficult.

“I–I’m not, I mean.”

“Not what?” the man asked, stepping away. It did not escape me that he was now closer to his wagon, towards the seat, where I thought he had a weapon hidden.

“N-not dangerous. And I’m not–I’m not bringing trouble. Sir.”

“Ha! See?” the boy said. “Now can we please help her?”

The man shrugged, not taking his eyes off me.

“We can’t delay by getting her cleaned up, we’ve got a shipment due. How about you run back in and get some spare clothes.”

The boy hopped off, running back into the compound.

The man gave my hand another glance.

“And bring some working gloves!” he shouted.

I thought I was in the clear with that order given, but the man had another idea.

Once the boy was gone, the man slid a hand through his hair and grunted. “A right mess you landed yourself in,” he mumbled, perhaps more for himself than I. He scoffed and shook his head. “Not as big of a mess as the girl.” He stepped back up to the driver’s seat and sat down with a thump. He then leaned over, elbows on knees, gazing down upon me somewhat imperiously.

At least imperiously for one of his station.

“Before my fool boy comes back, what’s your story? No lies this time.”

“W-what do you mean?” I asked, feeling uncomfortable under his attention. I had thought we had passed this part, that he had already bought what I was selling.

“Who Marked you?” He asked. “You one of the Pit Crews? A working gal? No shame in that. Honest work.”

I shook my head slowly, unsure of what he was getting at.

“Don’t tell me you’re gentry.” He sneered.

The term may have been somewhat antiquated, but considering that this kingdom had royalty, and knights, I assumed ‘gentry’ came as a loaded term for the aristocratic class. I briefly considered claiming that was where my roots laid, but quickly thought better of it.

“No.”

“Merchant class then?” he said, thinking more aloud than anything. “Might explain a few things. But what brings you out this far?”

I was beginning to get a handle on this man, and so I answered a bit more confidently. “Would you believe me if I said bandits?”

“You already did… and I do not believe you, no.” After another pause, he shrugged. “But maybe there’s something there. You were with a caravan then? Or were you… negotiating with a third party?”

His eyes drifted off towards the wastes, implying that the third party might have been an euphemism for smugglers or that ilk.

A story began assembling. If I had belonged to a ‘merchant’ house, and had been performing illicit dealings on the outskirts of the city, then that could explain some of my oddities. A deal gone bad, far more common than desirable, at least in my experience. But if that were the case, and if I had been involved in illicit dealings, then I would hardly confess to them. But an euphemism? One that let someone read between the lines, that explained some things, but avoided incriminating myself? That could work.

“A third party,” I said, licking my lips with caution while affirming his theory. I then added, “They… are not an issue anymore.”

He chuckled. “Big words. You took care of them then? Because from what I see–” his eyes trailed me up and down once more, leaving me feeling gross “-it seems you didn’t win, did you?”

I shrugged slightly, before crossing my arms, with my false arm closer to my chest. “I’m here, they aren’t,” I said. I doubted I could convince him that I was a victor in any sour deal. “Escaping with my life is win enough.”

“Suppose that’s true.” He leaned back once more, and postured against the cargo piling high behind him. It looked like cloth wrapped bales of weeds, maybe some type of hay. I could not say for certain, except I failed to recognize it. “But–” he said, and the hair on the back of my neck raised up as I honed in once more upon him. “-say that’s true. Why were you heading away from town? And why are you trying to hitch a ride?”

I glanced down at my feet, filthy and cracked, with disgusting toenails. At least I carried no stench, for otherwise I would have stunk. Terribly so.

“Taking you on is a risk,” he said. “One I’m not so sure I need to take. Despite my fool boy thinking with his cock.”

I grimaced at the crude imagining, and instead focused on the intent behind it.

It was curious. Not that he had sent the boy off with secondary intentions, for I had already realized that. Of course he removed the biased variable before questioning me. That made sense. No, the curious part was that this conversation was increasingly coming across as something I was peripherally familiar with.

“If there was a risk between here and town,” I started waylaying his claims of risk, “then it would exist regardless of if I accompanied you or not. Would it not be better to travel together? Strength in numbers, and all that.”

“Heh,” he said, spitting down to my feet, and just missing the meohrs. “What happened to shaking them off your tail?”

I did my best to ignore him. And the metaphor of having a tail.

“I am not pursued.”

“Confident in your Marks then?” He gave a patronizing smile.

“I am. Caution always–”

“-I’ll never dispute caution. But the fact is, I cannot know if what you say is true. And I think you’re traveling with us for a different, less-than-lawful, reason. I think you want an easy way back in through Southbridge. Or maybe you lost your toll-pay? Either way, you need us, we don’t need you, and I don’t see a reason to take a risk.”

This was what it came down to. “You need an incentive, then?” I asked, while thinking.

He already thought I came from some sort of merchant class, maybe a gray-market, or black-market one at that. He was a farmer of some sort, or a land-owner. He grew crops. Did this land prohibit drug-crops? Was that a thing here, I wondered.

“An incentive would help.”

“I don’t have payment on me.”

“But when we get back?” he asked.

I nodded curtly. I had to refrain from coming across as too eager.

“Maybe good enough. Maybe not…” he said, shrugging, seeming to know I had little recourse. Of course, I could always try my luck elsewhere. Assuming he let me leave without problems.

However, I thought he might have been posturing, so I pushed slightly further.

“You want something more?” I said, arching an eyebrow, channeling my best impression of what I hoped was a merchant.

“You got it,” he said. “A contact and a favor.”

I winced, before covering it up and keeping my face placid. I was pretending to be a merchant who was pretending to be a legitimate business person. It was a bit more confusing than I would have liked, but I persevered.

“What would the nature of this favor be?” I asked with hesitation.

“I think you know,” he said, now smirking. The insufferable brute.

At that point, the door to the hold shut as the boy came running back with a bundle in arms.

“So?” the man asked. “What’ll it be?”

I groaned.

“Fine. You have yourself a deal.”

Internally, I celebrated. Now, I would just have to ditch them once I entered Southbridge.

Blessings: Rank (1/9)

Body: 65

Mind: 75

Spirit: 49

Talents:

Athleticism (3/9):

Climbing I (2/9)

Featherlight I (3/9)

Inversion (2/9)

Stealth I (5/9)

Trackless Tracks I (3/9)

Area Coverage (3/9)

Alchemical Immunity (ineligible for growth)

Eschiver (7/9)

Evasion (6/9)

Spells:

Illusion I (5/9)

Touch (8/9)

Guise of the Kitsune (1/9)

Closed

Gifts:

Obsession (3/9)

Closed (0/9)

Closed (0/9)