Downtown Druid

Dantes slid his hand into the next divot in the wall and pulled himself up, resting his feet between a narrow crack. He looked up, seeing another small divot and sliding his hand into it, he pulled himself another half a foot. He was about fifteen feet off of the ground now, but still felt steady. He’d been a second story man long enough that heights didn’t give him any pause. He looked for another hand hold higher up, but didn’t see one. He looked to the left and saw several more that he could shimmy to. He began doing so, moving with confidence as he slid further to the left, then up, then down a bit more, then back up. He was attempting a reverse of the path he’d been taking when he started, and enjoyed the freshness of the differences. Once he was done he began to slowly make his way back down. Moving inch by inch until his feet touched the hard stone below.

He took several deep breaths, and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Dantes had never really trained at anything before. He was familiar with the concept of course. His father, on one of the few attempts he’d made to get to know him, had taken him to the arena to see the various gladiators train. It served as a way to spend time with Dantes and to decide who he’d be gambling on later, a brilliant use of time. Dantes had watched them practice their sword swings, or lift heavy stones, finding himself deliriously bored the entire time, and much more interested in watching the noblewomen watching the gladiators train rather than the gladiators themselves. Even after that he’d seen Merle and his people weightlifting fairly often as well. It held no appeal to him.

He preferred to focus on practical experience as a way to learn, since that’s the way he’d developed all of his own skills. You couldn’t ‘practice’ pickpocketing, not in any way that mattered. He’d learned to climb and run quickly because he’d climbed and run quickly to get away from people he’d robbed or wronged. He stole because he needed to do so to survive, and he fought when he had no choice because he’d rather be the one doing the hitting, than the one being hit. Training had been a privilege of those with the extra time and energy to devote to it. Dantes only just now had the rare combination of both.

He squeezed his fingers together, feeling the increased strength of his grip that he’d developed over the last two weeks. He was satisfied to have seen as much progress as he had in that short amount of time. It was almost as if actually having enough food to eat, and not needing to constantly be concerned that you might be attacked had a positive benefit on one’s health.

He moved from the wall to the small pile of food he’d placed on a nearby rock. Jacopo slept next to it, having eaten some of the fruit there without asking permission. Other rats sat nearby, eyeing the food scraps near him, but not approaching. Several roaches did the same. Dantes grabbed a peach and several grapes from the stone and threw them into the corner, broadcasting that they were free to take. The vermin didn’t hesitate, immediately swarming over it and fighting one another for it. Even with all of the food Dantes already let them have freely, they were always willing to fight for more, an attitude that he respected.

He looked at his ratmark. Three full fangs had been filled. He’d not only been training his body, but his new abilities as well. He had gotten to the point that he could communicate with the rats at a greater distance, could tell much more exactly how much a task from them would cost him in favor, and could even quickly shift from looking through one’s eyes, to another, and then another, without losing focus on what was happening in front of him. He practiced doing so for a moment, observing himself from several different angles before reaching Jacopo, who refused to open his eyes.

He chuckled at that as he tucked into his food himself. He’d managed to trade some fruit with the nearby kobolds for a substantial amount of dried meat. It was mostly rat, and the bit that wasn’t had been taken from one of the recent drops into the maw. He’d been very clear that he wasn’t interested in any two-legged fare, but they’d explained to him that to share that would be impossible anyway, as that food was marked for the clan, not for trade.

Once he was done eating, he put his shirt and jacket back on, letting Jacopo climb into one of his jacket pockets. He then moved out of the chamber and began walking toward his garden. He could sense a nest of roaches nearby. They weren’t hungry, but he could feel their need to expand into new nests as the current one was getting too full, and competitive. He couldn’t talk to the roaches like he could the rats, but he could communicate with them. It was closer to how he felt the plants, with the only difference being that the roaches' desires translated more directly to needs he understood. He still couldn’t order them to do anything, but he could broadcast if he didn’t want them to do something. A few of them broke with his requests, and those few were set upon by rats. It was a minor infraction against him in the grand scheme of things, but he couldn’t help, but keep score no matter how petty things got.

He entered the garden. It was now taking up nearly half of the chamber. Large chunks of old stone had broken as the roots of trees slowly spread out, and vines covered the floor. All the leaves were still a vibrant red, and fruit grew readily everywhere. Rats nested heavily in the trees, and readily fed on excess fruit, creating a constant flow of the rat god’s favor in his direction.

He drew his rapier and pricked his wrist with its tip. It was a bit of a dramatic gesture, but the sharpness of the rapier left a much cleaner cut than his shivs had in the past. He fed the garden several drops of his blood, feeling the gratitude of it as he did so. Its many voices giving thanks. When the blood was gone he felt drained even though it was only a few drops, but his energy restored itself relatively quickly.

He moved to lift two fruit sacks he’d prepared the previous day. They were heavy, but much more manageable than they had been two weeks prior. He considered taking only one, since he knew that he would likely be carrying a small cask back, the first taste of what Mez had been brewing, but decided to push himself.

He walked along the familiar route, scanning ahead with rats he ordered along the path ahead of himself and switching between their senses and his own to stay aware of potential threats. He’d encountered nothing more dangerous than a few skitterlings in the last couple of weeks, but that didn’t mean an elf hungry for revenge, or another giant spider hungry for him, couldn’t be lying in wait somewhere.

He smoothly moved through Mez’s worn down traps and into his brewery. It smelled richly of fruit and alcohol. Mez was about to cap a small barrel as Dantes approached.

“Tes, come.” He gestured with a claw for Dantes to approach.

He complied, and Mez took a small clay cup and scooped some of the barrel's contents inside before holding it out to him. Dantes put the sacks of fruit down, but hesitated. He’d planned on immediately making his way to the Collared after this and may need his wits about him. At the same time though it helped to know what he was working with, at least that was the justification he convinced himself of as he took the cup and drank deeply from it.

The taste was… not half bad actually. Especially compared to the swill he had gotten used to in the last five years. Then the burn of it as he swallowed it down hit, and it felt like he’d just had a sip of fire. He coughed and hit himself in the chest.

Mez nodded. “You see what I can do when I’m not dealing with fungus and rot, eh?”

Dantes nodded, taking a much less justifiable second sip. “This…this is going to make a deal much easier to sell… Though it may kill any gnome who attempts to drink a full cup of it.”

Mez chuckled. “I don’t know about that. I’ve known more than a few gnomes that could outdrink orcs.”

Dantes nodded. Mez hated orcs, he’d probably tell you that he’d seen a gnome beat one at arm wrestling if you gave him the context in which to mention it.

Mez went back to capping the barrel. Carefully sliding in the wooden top. He then handed him two leather flasks. “These are the samples, figure they may help.”

“You not coming?” asked Dantes, testing the weight of the small cask and immediately regretting that he’d carried so much fruit there. They’d definitely need to work out some kind of alternative way to transport the goods. Dantes wanted to train, but he had limits.

“No, I have more to brew, more to test. Besides, don’t like going that close to the Maw. Too many people.”

Dantes nodded. “Alright then. I’ll be back with good news.”

“You really can’t help but tempt the gods to ruin your day.”

“Well, I’ve got a few on my side.”

Mez looked around. “Not in the pit you don’t, but good luck anyway. Try not to fuck it up.”

Dantes chuckled, and started moving, he tied the cask up with ropes using a sailor’s knot he’d picked up at the docks so that he could carry it on his back. He let out a slight groan as he stood. His legs were already sore, and he had a long trek before he reached the Collared.