Northgate
Basement of a Nondescript Building in a Forgotten Part of Town
Day after the Dustown Apartment Fires
Vanja
Vanja has spent the morning treating burn patients, the fallout from the fire that had destroyed the Baker’s apartment complex, and when it seems, hours later, that she has seen the last of them - drained the last blister, packed the final wound, there’s more. No longer burn victims, but other injuries. Broken bones, and black eyes. Madam Lovelace tries to turn these additional patients away, at first - this is not a physician’s office. The new medic is here to help the working girls, not the Northgate population at large. The triage station for the burn patients - this field hospital that the Majestic’s lobby has become - is temporary. The Majestic is many things - hotel, brothel, club, cabaret - but it is not a hospital.
Vanja treats the injured anyway, as best she can without using her magic. It is an exhausting thing, even more than when she uses the River. Every patient she sees, she sends away still broken, still in pain. Some she sends with a rune of protection, pressed into a splint, or into the wax seal of a bandage, and a quiet prayer under her breath that she hopes can speed the healing. But there’s no light. No magical energy flowing from the sky and out of her hands.
At the back of her mind, she hears Ethan’s voice, low and urgent, only two days before. Threatening her. Warning her.
“I don’t want to hear any rumors about a ‘girl who can work miracles’.”
Her stomach twists.
She’d barely known him, really.
But he was dead.
And now she knew no one in this city at all.
Vanja rises from her knees, where she’s been treating a boy with a head injury. It was the sort of thing common in a fight, when a man didn’t have the sense or the ability to shield his face with his hands. The boy’s ear is swollen with blood - bulbous like a mushroom. The area around his eye is swollen as well. Vanja treats with willowbark, for the pain, and lances the swellings with a sharp, clean knife. From the way the boy is nodding, though, his steps unsteady, his eyes closing, Vanja knows he has swelling in his brain as well. Maybe a skull crack. It’s a strange constellation of injuries for someone so young, and there’s nothing more she can do for it - not without calling on the River, and that’s not something she can risk anymore.
“If you want to help people, you have to be alive.”
Vanja shakes her head, trying to clear it of Ethan’s voice. She’s tired, but full of anxious energy. She shakes out her arms. Tilts her head, stretching her neck, rolls her shoulders back. She’s done what she can with the boy, and she needs to leave. To get on her feet. Get away from this place. The smell of the girls’ perfume mixing with her own antiseptic is making her sick.
As Vanja makes her way to the door, she nods to the Madam. Lovelace is standing with a young boy - he’s clean, and well dressed, a brimmed cap perched on top of tidy hair. A professional runner, maybe. He’s speaking rapidly to Lovelace, pulling something from the bag slung across his shoulder. Lovelace says something back, but Vanja can’t hear it - her own pulse is loud in her ears. Lovelace holds up a hand to Vanja, signaling her to stop, waving her down.
Vanja shakes her head. Whatever it is, it can wait. The boy Lovelace is speaking too looks hale enough, and Vanja needs to get outside. Her breath is coming quick but not filling her lungs. She needs air.
In an instant, Vanja is in the cold, out on the street. The wind whips through her hair, and bites through the loose woolen knit of her tunic. She’s left her cloak in her room at the Majestic. She hesitates, but she’s taking gulps of the cold air now, drinking it like water, and the brothel seems suffocating. Instead, she lowers her head against the wind, leaning forward into it. Vanja starts to walk.
By the time the sun begins to set over the Torbjaer mountains - disappearing sooner than it should, even this late in the year, Vanja is somewhere new. She still remembers where the Majestic is, though, the bloated, leaning hotel distinct in her mind. The city was new, yes, but she’s navigated game trails before, and she’s realized it’s much the same. Still, this street is dark, and unfamiliar.
From a hole in the street, yellow light bleeds into the darkness, coming up from the base of a set of stairs - suicide stairs, Ethan had called them, for their dangerous lack of railing. It was an accurate name. Had the light not been there, it would have been easy to miss the staircase altogether. To take a step and fall into the black. Vanja wonders if that’s what happened to the boy she had treated earlier - if he’d fallen from a height like this. Fifteen feet down onto stone.
From the street above the stairs, Vanja can hear voices coming up from below. The raucous sound of laughter, and cheering. Mens’ voices, mainly, clashing against one another. Yelling, arguing. Then, an instant later, erupting into cheers and laughter. As Vanja looks down into the well, a man is thrown bodily onto the foot of the stairs. He’s on his feet quickly though, and laughing and cursing in turn. He spits blood on the ground, and Vanja can smell it.
As the injured man rounds the top of the stairs, Vanja steps out of the way, and onto the street. He notices her anyway, addresses her with a laugh, “If you’re waiting for your man, you’d better go down yourself, before he gets himself killed,” he says. He snorts, sniffing something back into his nose, and then spits again, a clot of blood and snot landing in the snow near his own feet. “That drunk fuck is taking all comers again.”
Vanja looks up at the man. His nose is broken. Crushed into his face. His eye socket, too - the eye itself bulging. He smiles at her, revealing several missing teeth, then shrugs, “Of course, some girls like a man with some fight in ‘im, right?” He laughs and nods, giving her a little mock bow before making his way down the alley.
Vanja watches the man leave, and glances down at the spot of blood in the snow.
A fight.
She didn’t think they did that sort of thing in Isendel. Blisterkere was Jorungun.
Vanja moves down the staircase, now, keeping her hand against one stone wall. On the air, there’s the smell of sweat and blood. The acrid stink of vomit. From the other side of the threshold, Vanja can hear, clearly now, beneath the cheers and groans of the onlookers, the thick, dull sound of a fist hitting flesh. Of a body hitting the ground. Another round of cheering. For a moment, a few notes of music, then heckling. Laughter. A voice calling for bets.
For just an instant, Vanja hesitates. This was reckless. Without her cloak she’s exposed now, not just to the cold, but to the dangers Ethan had warned her against. Painted Swan soldiers. Bountymen. Witch hunters.
“For the love of all the gods, keep your fucking head down. Do not, under any circumstance, call attention to yourself.”
Vanja pushes the memory from her mind, and enters the room.
Ethan is dead. And Vanja is spoiling for a fight.
Roux
Roux doesn’t notice the redhead enter the basement he’s frequented so often this past year. He’s too busy focusing on the two men he’s currently fighting. Twins. But he never seems to be able to hit one of them, even if he’s sure of a connection. Luckily, that one has terrible aim, and never swings anywhere near Roux. His brother is the one to look out for. So Roux adapts and settles into a refined fighting style he’s shaped over this past year.
The brothers swing at the same time. Predictable. Roux ignores the one on the left and ducks under the fist of the one on the right. The big one. Using the momentum of his duck, Roux slams his shoulder into the abdomen of his opponent and pushes hard. The man back pedals as Roux runs him through the crowd, crashing into the steps by the entrance. The crowd instantly adapts to the new pit, but Roux is ready to finish this. He straightens up on top of the brute and throws two quick lefts and then a right elbow across his chin. The brute’s head snaps to the side, spitting blood across a pair of hide boots that stand in the doorway.
Roux, having completely forgotten about the second opponent, smirks to himself, but that fades when he notices the bloody shoes. He slowly looks up, preparing himself for yet another fight…
“Damn,” he thinks, “I was planning on getting a drink after that one.”
Familiar with Roux winning, the crowd has quickly moved on, reforming the circle in the center of the room, and a minstrel plays a quick tune, as two fresh fighters prepare to brawl.
Roux’s eyes lock on the freckle-faced redhead standing in the bloody boots. He raises an eyebrow and stands.
“Uh…” Scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry about your boots.”
Roux turns to head to the bar stand in the corner, as the next fight commences, and the crowd drowns out the minstrel’s lute.
Vanja
Vanja watches as the tall fighter turns away, heading down the side of the room.
She calls out to the fighter, “Hei! What’s…”
He doesn’t turn. He either hasn’t heard hear over the rising din of the crowd, or he’s ignoring her.
Vanja scuffs her boot into the hard packed dirt of the floor, allowing the dust to settle on the areas wet with blood.
Another fight is beginning, so Vanja edges along the wall, tailing this man whose final hit had sent blood across her boots. He’s larger than she is, and the crowd parts in front of him - the patrons avoiding contact with him. When he reaches the bar, Vanja is there, too. The bar itself is not much more than a slab of wood atop a pile of crates, so Vanja is careful as she leans against it. It’s slightly quieter here, in the corner.
“If you’re sorry, you can buy me a drink,” she says to the fighter. He looks like he’s already sick from drink himself, though maybe the unfocused look in his eye is from the recent fight.
Roux
Roux answers without looking at the young woman that followed him to the bar like a lost puppy, “Sorry, I’m all outta coin.”
In this moment the short, gnarled man that runs the fights plops a bag of coin in front of Roux with a snort, “You always make ‘em interesting.” He then slaps Roux on the back hard and scurries off.
Roux smiles through gritted teeth and chuckles to himself. Without lifting his head, “Pin!” A gnome’s head pops up from behind the plank of wood. “Make it four.”
Pin returns a moment later with four shots of whiskey. Roux slides two of them to the redheaded girl.
Vanja
Vanja looks into the small glass. It’s whiskey. Good. Better than the weak Isendelian ale she’s had at the Majestic. She looks at the fighter again. There’s one prominent scar on his chest, but it’s old. Long since healed. Still, he’s injured now, from more than just this last fight. Old bruises cover his bare torso, but he doesn’t seem like he’s in pain. Whiskey had that effect.
Vanja drinks the whiskey and holds the second glass in her hand. She gestures to him, indicating the bruises, the scar on his chest, “Do you do this for a living, then? Some kind of professional fighter?”
Roux
Roux downs one whiskey, and then the other. Laughing to himself, he says, “Haha, yeah… Some kind.” He glances over the bar, presumably looking for Pin.
There’s the sound of a fist making contact with flesh, and the muffled crack of a breaking bone. The crowd erupts in cheers, but settles soon after. The current fight is continuing - neither of the huge men fighting now have yielded yet. Vanja looks toward the center of the room, trying to make out more details of the fight, but she can’t see through the thick crowd - denser toward the center of the room, framing the fight.
Vanja
Vanja glances again at the young man next to her. It was obvious he wasn’t one for conversation, but he was her only option at the moment. Everyone else in the room was distracted by the ongoing action.
“How do you know who wins?” she asks. In Linjør, the goal had been to be strong. To be ready, in case the skills were needed. Never to cause injury for the sake of it. Every fight Vanja had been in went until someone yielded, or was so injured that the training was no longer worthwhile. But the man next to her had continued to fight until his opponent had crumpled to the ground. Until he’d lost consciousness.
Roux
“Pin!” Roux gives up after a moment and presses the empty glass to his forehead. Furrowing his brow, eyes closed, he says, “Who won that last fight?”
Vanja laughs a little, “You did.”
Roux turns to the redhead girl and cracks a small smile, “How do you know?”
“You’re still standing?” She laughs in earnest now, but covers her mouth to catch the sound, “Okay, fair enough. What I meant was, is that the only way to win?”
Roux looks at her, genuinely confused. He looks a bit closer. “Are you a priestess? Look. If you’ve come here to evangelize, I’m not interested. Though you’d probably get a fair bit of coin bet on you, if you play up that angle in the pit.” He gestures with his head back towards the man taking bets from the crowd, then calls again for Pin. “Pin!”
Vanja
Vanja scoffs. She doesn’t understand the insult, just that the comment was intended as one. She takes her second drink. She knows it’s not real warmth, but the whiskey is helping her feel better. Looser. She scans the room, taking note of the man writing down bets in a book. “Fine,” she says. She realizes she won’t get much more from the man next to her, who was either thickheaded or thick with drink, “How do I do that, then? Put my name in for a fight? And does it cost anything from me?” She hasn’t been paid for her physician work at the brothel. The understanding, at least for now, was she worked for room and board.
Roux
Roux gestures again towards the man taking bets. “Needle can sign you up. Free to fight. If you want coin though, you gotta win.” With impeccable timing, as always, Pin returns with a couple more whiskeys. Roux swoops one up and tilts the glass towards the curious girl. “But you already know how to do that.” He smiles a playful smile and returns to his whiskey.
“Oh. Before you go. What’s your name?” Roux turns from his whiskey and lifts the ever lighter coin pouch and shrugs a bit. “I wanna know who I’m betting on.”
Vanja takes the other whiskey without asking the fighter for permission. “I’m Skau Vanja,” she says, raising the shot to the man, “You?”
Roux tilts his glass again in cheers. “Roux Faux. And Skau Vanja… Sorry again about your boots.”
Vanja
Vanja hits the ground, hard, the impact sending a shock through her hip and numbing her leg. She rolls, using the momentum of her fall to get out of the way of the next blow - her opponent’s boot coming down, aiming for her stomach.
She had misjudged the fighting culture here. She’d assumed she’d be paired with someone her own size, but when she’d spoken to the bookie - the man Roux had called Needle - he’d looked her up and down, squinting a little, then written something in his book, and said she was on deck.
The man she’s fighting isn’t as tall as Roux - still sitting at the bar - but he’s bigger than Vanja. Broader, too. He has 70, 80 pounds on her, maybe. Not all of it muscle, but all of it solid. His head is shaved, but his moustache is long. Braided in the Jorungun style. He doesn’t care that Vanja’s new. There’s no going easy. It doesn’t matter who they fight, here, Vanja realizes, because there’s no prize for losing.
Vanja’s on her feet again, now, recovered from her fall. She’s staying on her toes, her feet apart. She keeps her knees bent, and her hands at her jaw.
Her opponent moves - his left shoulder turning, his fist coming toward her face. Vanja turns away, blocking with her forearm, protecting her head, but it’s a feint. His right fist catches her in the ribs, sending her staggering back, making her retch.
The man laughs, and the crowd joins in. From behind her, Vanja can hear a murmur of complaint - not at the beating she’s taken, but at the wasted bet.
Vanja waits until her opponent attacks again, and this time, she’s ready. She ducks the haymaker that sent her to the floor moments earlier, and she’s in close to her opponent’s torso. Short, sharp jabs to his gut. A decent hit to his kidney that will have him pissing blood in the morning.
Before Vanja can get in another flurry of blows, her opponent’s grabbed her by the collar - his own longer reach and greater strength allowing him to pick Vanja up like a cat, tossing her away. She’s back in an instant, though, inside his arms, where his greater reach is useless. Vanja grapples him, wrapping her arm around his torso, keeping him from pulling her away, as she slams her knee upward into his stomach, her fist into his throat.
Her opponent lets out a yell - a noise not of pain, but of frustration, and then his arms are around Vanja’s waist, and she’s lifted briefly off the ground, then slammed back into it. She’s on her stomach, now, and the man has one of her arms twisted behind her back. His arm is around her throat, choking the air from her. Vanja’s vision is swimming.
The man’s voice is in her ear, and she can smell his breath, “Just sleep, girl! No one wants to see this go on longer.”
Vanja drops her head forward, and whips it back. From the crunch of cartilage and the sharp pain in her own skull, she knows she’s connected. Then, air, as the man releases his hold, distracted momentarily, trying to staunch the blood flowing from his nose.
From the ground, Vanja laughs, in surprise at her success.
Her opponent shakes his head, sending droplets of blood flying. “You little bitch,” he says. “That was a dirty fucking move.”
She laughs again, unable to stop it. With the blood dripping from his ruined nose, sending him sputtering through his moustache, he looks ridiculous. Like an angry goat.
But he’s barreling toward her now, lowering his head like a charging beast. Vanja scrambles to the side, awkwardly, falling on her ass, but avoiding the charge. Her opponent collides with some of the crowd, and they push him back into the loose ring of the fight.
By the time he turns to her again, Vanja is on her knees, then her feet, but she stays low this time. She knows what to expect now. She grins at him, baiting him. Her hair has come loose from the larger plait and she tosses her smaller braids back over her shoulder, in a gesture of nonchalance. Despite the pain in her hip, in her gut, she feels good. Her heart is pounding from the activity, and there is air burning in her lungs.
The man sputters. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”
Vanja doesn’t answer, and it enrages him more. He charges again, and this time, Vanja’s ready. She shifts, just slightly, into a crouch. As her opponent gets close, she twists, spinning her leg out, connecting with his knee, sending him sprawling. He turns over, on his back now, but Vanja’s on top of him, her knee in his stomach, forearm on his shoulders, keeping him flat on the ground.
The man spits at her, sending blood into her face, but Vanja barely notices it.
If this were Linjør, if this were a Jorungun fight, this would be the end of it.
But that’s not how it works here.
She focuses her blows on his face. His jaw, his cheekbone, the ruined nose. Finally, Vanja grabs the man’s collar with one hand, a braid of his moustache with the other. She lifts his head off the ground and slams it down.
He’s unconscious.
Vanja climbs off of her opponent and shakes her hands out, flexing her fingers. She’s laughing again, unable to help herself, bending over her knees until she’s breathless. She hasn’t felt this good since leaving home.
Roux
Roux smirks from the bar at the blood-covered redhead laughing uncontrollably over the broken body of a man twice her size. Subconsciously, he’s relieved to learn that she doesn’t need him to protect her. Consciously, he’s impressed.
Roux meets up with her by Needle as she collects her prize money. He looks down at her now completely red boots, then back up. “Nice fight. With the way you were asking questions, I thought you’d never even made a fist before.”
Needle begrudgingly plops a bag of coin into Roux’s outstretched hand. Roux turns to leave. “See you around, Skau Vanja.” Holding up the bag as he walks away, “Thanks for the whiskey.”
Vanja
In her room at the Majestic, Vanja finds herself once again looking at her own bloody face in the looking glass. This time though, some of it is her own. She’d split her lip at some point, during the fight, and there’s a cut in her scalp, above her ear. Her neck is the worst, though - the bruising already starting, spreading across her throat like ink.
Vanja’s grinning though - the contrast of white teeth a shock against her face, darkened with blood and sweat and the dirt of the floor she’d been slammed into.
She takes off her boots, her sweater, and her hide leggings - taking a moment to assess the worst of her injuries from the fight. Her shoulder is still in place. Not much more than bruising there. There’s a vibrant purple bruise on her side, and she probes it carefully, flinching away from her own touch. Two ribs, it seemed like.
Her hands are bloody, too - the skin broken over her knuckles from hitting her opponent’s teeth.
Vanja spreads her fingers, and starts to pray - like all of her prayers it’s one she’s learned from her mother. It’s one she hasn’t said in weeks, though, not since being forced to flee her home. It’s a prayer of thanks. Of appreciation. She’s alive. After everything - the inquisitor coming to her town, the weeks in the woods, the Swan in the alley, her dangerous new friends, she’s still alive. There is blood in her veins, weeping out through the cuts in her hands, the split of her lip - pooling beneath her skin.
As her prayer of thanks fills the air, Vanja twists her hand, and a small ribbon of healing River light weaves itself through her fingers.
By the green glow, Vanja notices something on the table. It’s a small envelope. On the outside, written in the careful hand of a professional scribe, is the name “VANYA SCOW.”
Vanja increases the River light - her left hand glowing brightly now, illuminating the room with shifting light, flowing from green to pink, to gold.
She opens the envelope. The message is a single line:
“I’ll be in touch.”
There is no signature, but there are brown smudges around the paper’s edge, and the letter smells of cinnamon.
Ethan was alive.
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