Ruby Fox and the Blackwater Idol: Chapter 1

Written by PIPER BACON

---

The sun beats down harsh onto wooden docks. Bells chime off in the distance, and hurried boots thump on the ground, rushing to get from place to place, to load and unload.

Everything is dictated by time in Gaerist. Everything is on point, sharp, for that is how the economy stays afloat, and how business keeps evolving and growing.

Mothers pull their children from one destination to another and send their husbands off with teary eyes and warm embraces. Passengers and sailors alike say goodbye to their loved ones as they prepare for another departure, another journey, another day in their lives. For Pasairians, monotony was ideal, but rarely achieved.

A man like many others steps off of one of these ships. He is not a sailor to be repaid and sent off again the next morning. He’s a visitor, just for a bit.

His lips pursed as he squinted awkwardly in the morning sun and how it began to crack over the waves. Its rays bounced off of the waters, casting a warm gleam over the shops and apartments that lined the bay. The man scratched the stubble that had begun to line his jaw, his course, densely curled black hair falling in front of his eyes as it blew in the ocean breeze. He looked around, adjusting his satchel, getting a better grip on his mostly-empty briefcase, and searched in his spot for the nearest street sign pointing him in the direction he needed to go. It wasn’t long before his eyes locked onto a sign, kept clean and new, that pointed in the direction of the Westport Library.

The man nodded to himself and went to take a step, but stopped in his tracks while people he hadn’t noticed passed in front of him in a hurry, leaving hasty apologies as they went. He smiled abashedly, apologetically. He sighed, the weight on his chest refusing to budge.

He adjusted his satchel once more, an unnecessary tick, and hurried on his way, uptight, anxious, yet excited.

It seemed that he couldn’t quite shake the books from his mind. This was something he’d been waiting on for months now, he just hoped it could finally be the revolutionary break he’d been hoping for in his research.

He had already acknowledged the truth that he could go out, discover all of this on his own, have an excuse to get out of the house and do something with his life, and not just spend his time sitting back, studying virtually dead languages and old scrolls he’d spent the majority of his money on.

Granted, all of this research would end up going into one large finalized book that he could publish. Being one of the few in Pasairia to be knowledgeable of such things, he’d earn plenty from his publishings, making this potentially be the last bit of knowledge he would ever truly need in order to make it happen. If only he had gone out and gotten it himself, several months ago, so what he found could even be more accurate, more insightful, more rich with information…

Then again, he could hardly picture himself able to leave the country of Pasairia for all of this. It was even a challenge for him to leave his home city, Falacar, just for this book.

This didn’t bother him. He figured he lived a fine enough life, with fine enough privileges, and fine enough finances. He was happy with the way things were, and wouldn’t change it for the world. At least, that’s what he’d managed to tell himself.

A crossroads stopped him on his way. He approached a sign pointing left down Halmond Street and the other forwards to Westport, where the library would be. His inn, however, was down Halmond. He paused for a second, wondering if he should go, but it didn’t take long as a large wagon being pulled from behind spurred him into heading down Halmond, out of the way.

So far, he enjoyed the city, its sights, its senses, and even its people seemed friendly enough. Although he was aware that he came to the nicer side of the city. The further on the outskirts of the city you were, the more wealth you could see. Here, the streets were wide, every corner a marketplace ripe with commerce and opportunity. It wasn’t uncommon to see jewelers, fur dealers, and he had already noted how he’d seen at least two banks.

This side of the city, the western side, was the hub for most commerce and trade by ship. There were several inns, most of which were on the rather well-kept side of things for the more wealthy of visitors, which had been part of the reason why he had not chosen to stay in one of these. Despite being generally well-off, he only remained this way because of his frugal nature. The majority of his wealth came from his late parents’ inheritance.

At every corner, there was another booth, advertising to him many different trinkets with bright, welcoming smiles. He almost felt bad for refusing each of them, returning the friendly composure best he could, but he couldn’t help but be tense in such a new environment. It was rare that he ever left Falacar.

Still, he did his best to keep his sights ahead on the inn.

Soon enough, he’d pushed open the doors to the building. He could’ve hoped the noise would die down as he entered, but it seemed that the busy sounds of the city followed him in, amplified as they echoed off the walls.

Boisterous, joyous noise filled the room. Broad men with weather-worn faces from years of sailing gathered. Few drank, seeing how it was so early in the morning, but many ate, spoke over common things, laughed together before a good number them would inevitably depart later in the day. The barmaids, round-faced, dark skinned with their hair tied back— considerably beautiful women —walked around tending to their meals, their drinks, despite seeming groggy themselves. They served with warm smiles and quick service.

He knew he should feel fine, but nothing about his current scenario felt fine to him. He swallowed, and stepped forward.

The innkeeper came just from around the corner, deep-set eyes unintentionally glaring up at his customer. His attention fell to his registry that sat closed on his desk, pried open by hands with broken skin. His hands reached for a quill, dipping it carefully in the inkwell. He looked up at the man.

“I assume you’re looking for a place to stay?” the innkeeper spoke, almost interested.

The customer nodded. He’d already prepared the payment, had it clinking in his fist.

“Name?” the innkeeper asked.

“William Hare,” the customer said too fast.

The innkeeper sighed. He looked up, made bored eye contact. “What?”

William cleared his throat. “William Hare,” he clarified.

The innkeeper began to write.

“William Alexander Hare,” William overclarified.

“Thirty chips,” was all the innkeeper said in response.

William forced his lips into a smile, dropping the thirty copper coins onto the desk before him. The man behind the desk didn’t care to count. William considered asking his name, but forgot when the man dropped the cold, metal key in his palm.

“Thank you,” William said, taking the key with a nod. “I’ll hopefully see you around,” he said, passing the innkeeper and heading towards the stairs in the back of the inn.

The innkeeper did not care to respond.

Everything that played around him was just a blur in his peripheral, and he actively worked to pay no heed to any of the things he heard or saw around them. He wondered if the bar activities were more tame than he played them out to be in his head. He stupidly ignored his intuition, and kept walking, moving quickly as he could.

He jogged up the stairs, a steady hand on the railing, before he swung around the corner, melodramatic. He ached to get to his room. It felt oddly nostalgic to be back on land. He had underestimated how a week’s time on a ship would affect him. He wanted nothing more than to wash clean the stench of mildew and salt water out of his clothes, his skin, and his hair. Even though everything on him had stayed damp from the old, musty ship, his face and hands felt painfully dry. Drier than normal, considering he came from Falacar, the heart of the Southern Pasarian desert. The Crimson Frontier.

The salted water of the Serpens Sea drained all moisture out of anyone who sailed upon it. Even the greed of the desert could not compete.

He fumbled with the key before calming himself. He stopped for a moment, sighing, letting his heartbeat rest for a moment and giving time for his head to level out. He closed his eyes, only for a second, before letting out a short breath and looking at his hands, no longer shaking.

He unlocked the door and as it pulled open gently, he realized just how the commotion from downstairs had been drowned out. He smiled, genuine, soft. He lifted his briefcase once more, adjusting his satchel, and he pocketed the key.

Stepping into the room had felt nice.

It was a relief after a long, painstakingly boring journey. He felt drained, both physically and mentally. He looked up at an oil lamp, which was lit, but didn’t compare to the light that shone through the open window.

From inside the room, the city noise from below was muffled, and the only thing that could be clearly heard were the bells from the docks. It was nice, calming, and, at last, William felt as if he had made the right choice.

He smiled.

He turned away from the window and to the bed. He set down his briefcase on top of the mattress, his satchel down next to it. He closed the door behind him, taking in his small, humble surroundings. There was a painting hanging on the wall. A quarter of the size of the window, it hung parallel to the wardrobe across the room that sat at the foot of the bed. It showed the ocean, which was amusing to him. Next to it, there sat a mirror, which was rather short for him as he stood at six-feet, three-inches tall. Nevertheless, he bent down to look into it. He messed with his hair, which felt dry, dark and course. His already dark skin had been darkened by his extended periods of time out in the sun.

He shook his head with a smirk as he stood. Rolling up his sleeves, which were loose and cuffed at the wrists, he walked to the window, looking out. He crossed his arms.

He was content.

---

William Hare found himself scraping to find his way through the streets, which only thickened more with people as the day grew longer. Now, it was midday, and music filled the streets, coupling the joyous singing and laughter that rang commonly among the people.

He felt more comfortable in himself, having changed into dry clothes and asking one of the barmaids to do laundry for him while he was away. He made sure to leave her a generous tip, twenty chips, which was, by far, more than necessary, but he felt it was well deserved. He had his satchel with him around his shoulder, rested safely against him.

The street signs were not difficult to follow, only sometimes difficult to see over the festivities that many street vendors advertised to passerbys. Each vendor seemed to fight harder to get his attention despite his best efforts to politely avoid their attempts.

He tried to make his way to the library. He didn’t bother to move quickly, taking his time with slow, casual strides, almost forcing himself to relax. He contrasted the city around him, which worked in hastened motion, with people weaving habitually in and out of the crowds as they went.

William appreciated these much nicer parts of Gaerist, those being the fringes of the city and the fruitful coastline and docks that brought in so much revenue. On the outer coastal sections of the city sat the businesses and homes of the working-class and the bourgeoisie of Pasairia. The central points of the city were homes to the wealthy and the nobles, the government workers and high-class businessmen, and the family of the governor— really, the family of a glorified advisor to the throne.

In the lucky reaches of Gaerist, there was life, liveliness, a stark ignorance to the happenings beyond their bubble.

Everything in between the coast and the central city, however, were mostly impoverished, lower-class, the ones who struggled more often to get by. The city, as densely packed as it was, provided little benefit to those who didn’t fight hard enough for their place in the economy.

William never intended to see the lesser areas.

He’d heard the rumors of what was borne from these parts, and never bothered to show any interest in heading to those inner reaches. As he walked further into the Coastal District, he noticed the stragglers who came from the city depths, desperate for the scraps of the more fortunate folks’ last meal. William followed suit to those around him and kept his chin up when the reject s came scraping at his boots, his eyes elusively grazing over their scalps as he passed. He noticed the citizens of the Coastal District didn’t grant them even that small glimpse.

There weren’t very many of them in the district. William saw, at most, five that had crawled up from the sewage of the Inner District, but the grimy fingers that clawed at his legs, pulling at his pants, dirtied the visage of a perfect, dignified society— they burned in his mind and made his skin crawl beneath his sleeves. It was clear why those with some sense of civility ignored them, but he learned that even if he didn’t intend to see the lessers, the lessers were going to see him.

He felt another set of fingers claw at his boot, and an impulse told him to head to the right. He started down a new street, and a sense of familiarity with the redundant uniqueness that each building and business brough came with it.

While he wasn’t quite aware of where he was headed, he felt his eyes shoot from space to space, his head spinning with the stench of fish from the different shops that boasted their catch.

This particular alley was shaded by colored drapes that swung in a breeze from the rooftops. They filtered the orange sunlight as it dripped to the streets and upon the dark faces of the fishermen in their shops. As it fell in and out of William’s footsteps, he kept a heavy-lidded gaze set before him, irritated, not lingering on anything that made him too uneasy. The light betrayed his trust, misleading him into frustration. He quickened his pace.

A bell echoed from around a street corner just as William turned into it.

A crowd of men pushed past him, leaving a thick musk of tuna as they went. William shot a glance back at them, and squinted his eyes when he turned back ahead and started down the street that led towards the sea.

Fingers twitching, his muscles tensed.

He breathed deeper the further he walked from the fish market alleyway, and the sun shone down on his skin once again. He curled his lip, stepping out onto a plateau that stretched above the sealine. His shoulders dropped.

He was already sick of this city.

The noise in this section of Gaerist had died down, as did his tension.

The nearest sounds were the waves lapping at the shoreline and the murmurs and laughs from commoners a distance behind him. He squinted at the waves, his stance now more relaxed but his fist still clenched around his satchel. He heaved another breath, and his grip fell. The weight of his satchel dragged his posture down. It was overdramatic, but he didn’t notice.

He turned back to the street, picking at his thick, black hair, the heat and humidity warming his scalp. For a moment, William wasn’t wholly sure of what to do. His the waves lulled him into a spacey daze, and he stood still in its mist. He was sure that it was the library his gaze had lazily fallen over, and he consciously wanted to go, but his limbs were tired and did not move.

The wind blew his way, the chill nipping at his cheeks, and stinging his wet eyes. He rubbed them, his vision going dark, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

He would’ve stayed this way for a moment longer if not for a loud crunch and a thud of metal against bone and flesh hadn’t made him jump in his place.

It look a second for his sight to fall back into focus. In that time, he saw quick blurs from only yards away, coupled with the echoes of angry cries and grunts. Another wet crunch followed.

Two men fought, one significantly larger, more brooding than the other. The other was short, pale-faced, and dressed in maroon scraps with his face painted red. In his hands he held a large, metal rod. The light revealed the blood that clung to the rod, and William noticed the larger man’s wrist was crooked, awkward in a way that it shouldn’t have been.

A pit welled in William’s stomach.

The same anxiety that had just exhausted him suddenly returned, tenfold in size.

On an instinct, his eyes darted around the street for the nearest guard on patrol, but there wasn’t one in sight.

He let out a held breath. “Government,” he cursed in spite.

Spinning back to the fight before him, the large man, clearly angry, took a swing, hitting the man in red square on the side of the head. In an instant, the man in red was down, his body flung onto the dusty cobblestone with a thud. The rod in his hands skidded several feet from his grasp, landing at the tip of William’s boots.

William froze.

Both sets of eyes glared up at him. While the man in red fumbled up onto the palms of his hands, the large man stomped on his fingers, halting his movement.

He held out his hand. “Give it here,” he growled. The depth of his voice made William’s hands shake. “Before any more damage is done.”

“Don’t you do that!” the man in red pled. William noticed the blood lining his lips, and shuddered. “He’ll kill me,” the man croaked. “He’ll finish it off, you don’t want that!”

“This man attacked me while I was walking to go find my daughter. He’s crazy.” The large man glowered. “If I don’t kill him, the guards are going to anyways.”

His words drew a cry from the man in red. He visibly trembled from his spot on the ground. The large man dug his foot harder into his fingers. They snapped beneath the weight, and the man in red screamed.

The man in red rambled on a series of pleas for his life, bringing a heavier weight down onto William’s chest.

He shook. The large man’s gaze was intense, unbreaking.

He realized he’d made his decision too late when an arrow thudded into the large man’s shoulder.

His short cry of pain startled William, and he fell to his knees. William’s eyes stung with tears, not for himself but in fear of what ensued. Two new figures came from around the corner, one with a bow in her hand. Their similarly pale skin was plastered with black and red paint, an eerie sight for William to behold.

One of the two threw punches and jabs at the large man that had collapsed to his knees. The other, the girl, stepped before William. He fixated on her piercing eyes.

William sat unmoving.

Stuck.

She locked eyes with him. “Don’t you become an issue,” she warned.

He shook his head. On an impulse, he grabbed the rod. He scrambled to his feet as she glared at him, brow twitching. He didn’t know what to do with the cold metal that sat against his shaking hands, but he moved anyways as she did towards him.

He swung.

She blocked it with her bow. The fresh shock of the blow made his arms shake.

Carelessly, her bow skittered to the ground.

Stupid, he thought.

She pulled a knife from her belt.

He barely dodged a swing. Feeling his legs fall too close to the edge of the plateau, his knees buckled. It was too late to stop himself when he felt a cold fist lock onto his vest.

She forced him to his knees.

The same pale fist found a grip on his hair. She forced his head down. His arms were too weak to push back.

His lungs pushed air through his body in a struggle. Surges of adrenaline tensed William’s already aching muscles, made him clench and unclench his fingers.

He shook. He couldn’t shut his eyes.

“Glen, that’s not him,” the woman said, not to William. “The guy we want isn’t even Pasairian.”

Her words were muffled through the waves behind William, the ringing in his ears, the muffled ache in his head. He knew she wasn’t speaking of him. That’s all that mattered.

A man’s voice echoed back to her. William couldn’t quite make it out.

“If they’re on the same ship, it might be a wise-guy idea to keep that one alive,” she said in reply to his mumbling.

“What about the one you’ve got?” Glen asked, stepping closer. It wasn’t the little man from before. But now, the attention was on William. This was bad. “Is he at all important?”

“No… I don’t think he is, at least. He’s just in the way.”

“Get rid of him then.”

William’s cheeks burned. He thought his heart would just about stop.

He waited for the guards to come.

And waited.

He wondered when they’d stop their hesitation and finish him already.

He couldn’t stand to be alive, at least not here, not now.

Just as his fear became unbearable, a patter of footsteps came from around the corner, skidding to a halt from someplace behind William. A distraction. The girl’s grip kept his eyes on the ground, obscuring his senses.

“Elliot?”

“Isa, they’re coming. They were alerted. This was supposed to be an easy snatch!” It was Elliot who spoke. His voice was deep, foreign.

“What do we do?”

“Kill them both. We don’t have time for this.”

“I don’t wanna die!” the man from before cried. The one who started this whole mess.

“Save your breath, Ronnie. If we die, it’s for the good of the Othirian.”

“I’m so broken,” Ronnie cried. “I can’t do this!”

“Shut up!”

“Just kill them already!” Elliot yelled.

A bell began to chime. Not a port bell; an alarm.

William’s heart thudded in his chest; his hands were useless, trapped behind his back and on his nape. Still, his mind scoured for the quickest escape. He heard the metallic scrape of not-quite-dull metal as Isa, the woman who held him, picked her knife up from the ground. His eyes stung as they saw her pale hand move before his face; just in his peripheral behind them, her bow.

He didn’t wait for her grip to tighten on his hair.

With a surge of adrenaline, William lunged forwards, his hands grabbing madly for the bow. He felt the edge of a knife drawn across his skin, and on his fingertips he felt the thick, heavy wood of a bow. He spun around and swung the bow towards Isa, hitting her square in the jaw. He didn’t waste his time on watching her black out before him.

Lacking proper tackle for the bow, he held it out before him at the pale men clad in crimson before him. The man who he had seen attacked was dead in a heap on the road. William’s stomach revolted against the sight. He swallowed down the retch. His eyes burned.

“Leave me alone,” he pled. He ignored how visibly he trembled.

“Look what you’ve done,” Glen said. “Standing besides that, you’ll surely die with us.” He laughed with spite.

“I’m not dying!” Ronnie hollered. “I can’t! Not for this!”

“You signed up for this,” Glen said, gripping the broken Ronnie hard by his shoulder. “You die with us, or you die against us.”

“I don’t want to die!”

“Who are you?” William shouted, interrupting. His arm faltered. “What are you doing?”

Elliot sneered. “The Foul King’s business does not concern those of your kind. We work only for the good of the Blackbloods.”

At this, William fell quiet, and let the bow drop to his side. He was confused; he’d never heard of the Blackbloods in his life. And, in all his years of studying, he’d never once heard of this Foul King, and he couldn’t imagine it was King Borea.

The sound of clanking armor filled the available silence. He looked over to the corner to see the Pearlescent Guards march in a haste around the corner. The bow fell from his grip, and his fingers traced up his neck to where his skin had been sliced, warm blood seeping to his collar.

His pulse pounded for an entirely different reason. Fear of the wrath of the Pearlescent Guard was enough to make a man wonder if he’d know what the next morning would look like.

Ronnie had tried to flee, but his cohorts held their grip on him. “You’re coming down with us,” Glen hissed in his ear. “This was a simple retrieval mission before this place becomes fodder. Now you’ve ended the line for all of us.”

“I’m sorry,” the broken Blackblood sobbed. “I’m so, so sorry, please…”

“Face your death with some courage!” Elliot shouted in his face. The broken one only sobbed more.

William watched, wide-eyed, as they were seized. It was difficult to process as a shining, white gauntlet grabbed his arm and pulled him along. The Blackbloods were guided immediately to the edge of the plateau. William was held back, given an up-front view of what was happening.

A thick crowd had begun to gather.

William couldn’t quite breathe,

Adrenaline still coursed through his blood, but he couldn’t run, he couldn’t even look away.

Hands clenching and unclenching, his mind struggled to get free, but his muscles couldn’t.

There was nothing he could do. He felt so alone.

So helpless.

Hopeless.

He could hear it clearly now; Ronnie’s cries were vulgar as he hissed and spat curses. It was almost impossible to make out exactly what he was saying. His voice sounded as if every word he screamed tore more and more at his throat. It was clear in perfect irony that he would be the first to die.

Three armed guards stood to the left of the scene, and three to the right. Two guards in the center, right by the edge of the plateau that dropped off to the water below, held the man, crazed and spitting violent curses to those around him. The last guard stood at attention before them, facing the crowd, unphased by what was happening behind him.

He paid no heed to the curses that Ronnie threw his way.

“Damn you!” Ronnie screamed. “Damn you all who stand by and do nothing!” The man struggled, but was no match for the steady, unflinching grip the guards held on him. “Help me!”

“Let these lives be the price paid to show to all of you citizens of the noble city of Gaerist, and to all of you who pledge allegiance to King Borea, that Pasairia will not stand for such anarchy, disruption of peace, and violence within our walls.” The guard at the front spoke, ignoring Ronnie. Some of the crowd listened, some of the crowd listened rather to the almost incoherent screams of the dead man before them.

“Pasairia is a nation of peace,” the guard continued, “a nation of virtue, and standing honor and pride that all of us carry within us. These self-proclaimed Blackbloods will not be tolerated within this city and this nation. If any one of you standing citizens wish to come forth with information of their whereabouts, you will not be executed, and you will be rewarded.”

Not a single person dared to move a muscle. William held his breath.

The guard waited a moment longer. “On that note, it is time we end this.”

The man shrieked, unrelenting, unending.

The guard turned, stiff and uniform, to face the man. “If you have any last words, this is your time to speak.”

“I don’t need your permission to say whatever I wish,” the man seethed.

William took a moment to fully take in what this man had become. His trousers were torn, as was his crimson sash. His face bled. His fingers and arm were broken, and his skin was flayed, bloody. He was wretched in his being; broken, humiliated, a terrified joke of a man.

“To all of you out there who will listen to me,” he began, raising his voice so more can hear, “your lives are meaningless! You have no purpose, and have no idea what true life is, not even the Othirian can save you!” His voice was raw, cracking as he yelled. “Listen to me!” he hollered madly. “The Othirian Bloodline will take its place! You all will finally see his glory!”

“Shut up!” Elliot shouted, face red. “You have no idea what you speak of!”

“Oh, you’re next, brother!”

“Alright! He is finished,” the guard interjected, raising his voice. “You may proceed.”

The guards turned Ronnie, facing him towards the waves. They pulled back his arms, his head, exposing his neck.

He screamed and screamed, until he could scream no more. His voice cracked sharply, before dying out completely to dry hisses from his wide-open mouth.

One of the guards drew his sword, they put it to his throat, and William had to turn away as they finished the deal.

William looked away, at the ground for a second, the only thing he processed being the shrieks from the terrified citizens, the gasps from the shocked, and the cries of startled children. His chest heaved up and down. He hated being forced to stand still.

When he turned back, he noticed Ronnie struggle for only a moment, before his arms hung limp.

Dead.

Vacant.

The guards didn’t hesitate to toss the Blackblood’s body into the ocean, and William watched, his stomach churning, as the body bobbed, floated on the surface for a minute, before being snatched underwater by something unthinkable.

Soon enough, the deafening silence turned into roars of commotion, confusion, and fear.

William held his tongue. He remained standing in his place while the guards grabbed for the next Blackblood. They went through the same ceremony, shortened, but present and substantial. The world moved around him, and he didn’t care to pay attention.

He wasn’t sure where he would be going next. He didn’t trust that it would be pleasant, or he would be safe.

Something was out there, and tension was only growing.