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Arthur woke with a groan, skull feeling like it was being split in two by a goddamn pickaxe. His eyes struggled to focus as a blindingly bright light shone right into his face, bouncing violently off the coarse grains of sand digging into his cheek.
Rolling over onto his side and spitting grit from between his teeth, Arthur’s body shook as he let out a loud, hacking cough, the tremors of his breath scraping like knives across his parched throat. What’s more, the sweat on his body felt practically baked into his sun-scarred skin, relentless heat beating down on him in waves.
Where the hell was he?
He must’ve been drinking again. Likely spent the evening before acting a fool in some saloon, though he didn’t recall anything of the kind. It were probably about time he scraped himself off the ground and found his way back to camp; he could only hope that Miss Grimshaw was merciful in her judgement of his sorry state, though he strongly suspected she wouldn’t be.
The man sat up, stomach lurching and blood roaring in his ears as he did so. His tongue felt heavy and tasted sour in his mouth, like a ball of cotton swollen with blood. Thirst itched at him, that old familiar friend who always seemed to occupy his mind after a night of drinking, the burning desire for cool, crisp water...
Grimacing against the pain pulsing through his head, the former outlaw glanced around with leery eyes. What he found was that he was in someone’s… garden, or something like a garden, though he didn’t see anything growing in it. The place was enclosed at the back of a sleek and silvery-looking house, colossal walls of black stone sealing him in. He had no idea how he’d managed to get himself in here, though it weren’t the first time he’d marvelled at the peculiar ingenuity of his inebriated self.
Arthur’s hands brushed over the neatly raked sand under his knees, disturbing the intricate patterns someone had inexplicably gone to the trouble of shifting the grains into. Wind chimes tinkled from the lofty branches of a tree rising from the garden’s center, the sweet sounds coaxed by a light, playful breeze.
Abruptly, it all came rushing back. A dizzying swirl of memories tore through Arthur’s brain with all the delicacy of a herd of stampeding cattle. The island. The Abyss, and all the killing that’d gone on there. Kopaka. Winding up in an office with that Jack feller, overlooking a mass of dirt and toiling machinery, all of it terminating in a dreadful, ear-splitting BANG—
“Damn!” Arthur hissed, one hand flying up to paw at the back of his head. A couple locks of hair twisted beneath his shaky fingers, not at all the mess of splintered bone and gore he expected, though that would certainly explain his headache. Arthur’s shoulders slumped in relief all the same.
Twisting his body around, Arthur spotted his hat resting a few paces away— damn thing must’ve blown off, and his satchel was right beside it. Shoving himself to his feet, he swayed a little as his vision swam, nearly losing his balance. He had to stand a few minutes, breathing hard through his nose to beat back the nausea, but eventually managed to stumble the few steps needed to retrieve his hat.
Replacing it upon his head, Arthur scooped up his satchel, instantly noticing an odd… weight to it. A furrow of confusion appearing between his brows, Arthur drew the bag open, peering inside.
The first thing he noticed was a pile of money. An unbelievable amount of bills, all rolled up and tucked neatly into a corner of his bag, right next to his folded raptorskin duster, which Arthur was quick to pull out and put on to beat the dreadful heat. Moving the duster jacket around revealed yet another oddity in the bottom of his satchel, a gaudy-looking belt that he promptly shoved aside, and that action revealed a… bridle?
The former outlaw tugged the bridle out, the metal bits clanking noisily together as the reins dangled. He studied it closely, running his fingers along the fine leather it was made from, wondering.
Tucking the bridle back into his satchel (a mystery for another day), Arthur once again surveyed his immediate surroundings. He didn’t spot a gate or anything to get out of the garden, so figured he’d need to scale the wall somehow. Didn’t much like the idea of being caught trespassing. The tree was near enough to the wall, though, so perhaps if he climbed up there, clambered out across a few conveniently placed branches…
This all felt real familiar to Arthur. Much like waking up in some farmer’s barn, absolutely soaked with gin and a trail of befuddled lawmen left in his dust. The ex-outlaw might’ve laughed, if it weren’t for the agonizing pressure squeezing like a vice around his skull.
Arthur moved over to the tree, bracing one boot against the bark. Kicking off from the sand underfoot, he was able to grab ahold of one low branch and hoist himself upward, muscles straining and a small grunt escaping him. With even more huffing and puffing, Arthur clambered through the branches to bring himself closer to the wall, moving until he was able to balance on it with one knee, his other leg stretched out and braced atop a wobbly tree limb. His arms were securely fastened onto a pair of branches, allowing him to just barely lean forward a bit to see what was on the other side of the wall.
Sucking in a deep breath, Arthur peered over and, upon not spotting much to land on aside from a few square-shaped shrubs, decided to go ahead and hop over. With a mighty shove off the tree, his body slid over to the opposite side of the wall, hands catching on the ledge at the last moment to keep him from dropping too quickly and gaining a fracture for his troubles. After a moment of dangling, judging the precarious distance between his feet and solid earth, Arthur loosened his grip and dropped, boots hitting the ground with two distinct thumps.
Straightening up, Arthur took a gander at his surroundings. Now that he was out of the sand garden, he was treated to the sight of even more houses, all sharp angles and gleaming metallic accents organized in a nearly perfect grid that seemed to stretch on for days. As he took a step forward, Arthur noted that the street under his boots was paved, clear of trash and clogged sewer drains. And when he looked up at the sky, it was open and blue, not a single cloud visible for miles around, though a pale sheen of mist hung in the air.
It was like some kind of city, but not at all like the ones he’d seen before. This one was far more… clean. Open. Shiny. Very different from the smog-layered streets of Saint Denis, no factory smoke or the raw stink of sewage shadowing his every step.
“Huh,” Arthur said. This… weren’t all that bad, actually. He’d almost expected to find himself back on Kraw, but this must’ve been another one of those worlds Dell mentioned.
Well. The best way to find out was to go ask somebody, Arthur supposed. The thought of the note left by Kopaka in his journal itched at him; he wondered if he was anywhere near this Opealon place, and if so, how best to go about finding his friend.
The former outlaw glanced up and down the street. A few people walked by, but they didn't seem to be doing anything except stare at him like a bunch of bug-eyed cattle, skittish from his very presence.
Now, where to start…?
Rolling over onto his side and spitting grit from between his teeth, Arthur’s body shook as he let out a loud, hacking cough, the tremors of his breath scraping like knives across his parched throat. What’s more, the sweat on his body felt practically baked into his sun-scarred skin, relentless heat beating down on him in waves.
Where the hell was he?
He must’ve been drinking again. Likely spent the evening before acting a fool in some saloon, though he didn’t recall anything of the kind. It were probably about time he scraped himself off the ground and found his way back to camp; he could only hope that Miss Grimshaw was merciful in her judgement of his sorry state, though he strongly suspected she wouldn’t be.
The man sat up, stomach lurching and blood roaring in his ears as he did so. His tongue felt heavy and tasted sour in his mouth, like a ball of cotton swollen with blood. Thirst itched at him, that old familiar friend who always seemed to occupy his mind after a night of drinking, the burning desire for cool, crisp water...
Grimacing against the pain pulsing through his head, the former outlaw glanced around with leery eyes. What he found was that he was in someone’s… garden, or something like a garden, though he didn’t see anything growing in it. The place was enclosed at the back of a sleek and silvery-looking house, colossal walls of black stone sealing him in. He had no idea how he’d managed to get himself in here, though it weren’t the first time he’d marvelled at the peculiar ingenuity of his inebriated self.
Arthur’s hands brushed over the neatly raked sand under his knees, disturbing the intricate patterns someone had inexplicably gone to the trouble of shifting the grains into. Wind chimes tinkled from the lofty branches of a tree rising from the garden’s center, the sweet sounds coaxed by a light, playful breeze.
Abruptly, it all came rushing back. A dizzying swirl of memories tore through Arthur’s brain with all the delicacy of a herd of stampeding cattle. The island. The Abyss, and all the killing that’d gone on there. Kopaka. Winding up in an office with that Jack feller, overlooking a mass of dirt and toiling machinery, all of it terminating in a dreadful, ear-splitting BANG—
“Damn!” Arthur hissed, one hand flying up to paw at the back of his head. A couple locks of hair twisted beneath his shaky fingers, not at all the mess of splintered bone and gore he expected, though that would certainly explain his headache. Arthur’s shoulders slumped in relief all the same.
Twisting his body around, Arthur spotted his hat resting a few paces away— damn thing must’ve blown off, and his satchel was right beside it. Shoving himself to his feet, he swayed a little as his vision swam, nearly losing his balance. He had to stand a few minutes, breathing hard through his nose to beat back the nausea, but eventually managed to stumble the few steps needed to retrieve his hat.
Replacing it upon his head, Arthur scooped up his satchel, instantly noticing an odd… weight to it. A furrow of confusion appearing between his brows, Arthur drew the bag open, peering inside.
The first thing he noticed was a pile of money. An unbelievable amount of bills, all rolled up and tucked neatly into a corner of his bag, right next to his folded raptorskin duster, which Arthur was quick to pull out and put on to beat the dreadful heat. Moving the duster jacket around revealed yet another oddity in the bottom of his satchel, a gaudy-looking belt that he promptly shoved aside, and that action revealed a… bridle?
The former outlaw tugged the bridle out, the metal bits clanking noisily together as the reins dangled. He studied it closely, running his fingers along the fine leather it was made from, wondering.
Tucking the bridle back into his satchel (a mystery for another day), Arthur once again surveyed his immediate surroundings. He didn’t spot a gate or anything to get out of the garden, so figured he’d need to scale the wall somehow. Didn’t much like the idea of being caught trespassing. The tree was near enough to the wall, though, so perhaps if he climbed up there, clambered out across a few conveniently placed branches…
This all felt real familiar to Arthur. Much like waking up in some farmer’s barn, absolutely soaked with gin and a trail of befuddled lawmen left in his dust. The ex-outlaw might’ve laughed, if it weren’t for the agonizing pressure squeezing like a vice around his skull.
Arthur moved over to the tree, bracing one boot against the bark. Kicking off from the sand underfoot, he was able to grab ahold of one low branch and hoist himself upward, muscles straining and a small grunt escaping him. With even more huffing and puffing, Arthur clambered through the branches to bring himself closer to the wall, moving until he was able to balance on it with one knee, his other leg stretched out and braced atop a wobbly tree limb. His arms were securely fastened onto a pair of branches, allowing him to just barely lean forward a bit to see what was on the other side of the wall.
Sucking in a deep breath, Arthur peered over and, upon not spotting much to land on aside from a few square-shaped shrubs, decided to go ahead and hop over. With a mighty shove off the tree, his body slid over to the opposite side of the wall, hands catching on the ledge at the last moment to keep him from dropping too quickly and gaining a fracture for his troubles. After a moment of dangling, judging the precarious distance between his feet and solid earth, Arthur loosened his grip and dropped, boots hitting the ground with two distinct thumps.
Straightening up, Arthur took a gander at his surroundings. Now that he was out of the sand garden, he was treated to the sight of even more houses, all sharp angles and gleaming metallic accents organized in a nearly perfect grid that seemed to stretch on for days. As he took a step forward, Arthur noted that the street under his boots was paved, clear of trash and clogged sewer drains. And when he looked up at the sky, it was open and blue, not a single cloud visible for miles around, though a pale sheen of mist hung in the air.
It was like some kind of city, but not at all like the ones he’d seen before. This one was far more… clean. Open. Shiny. Very different from the smog-layered streets of Saint Denis, no factory smoke or the raw stink of sewage shadowing his every step.
“Huh,” Arthur said. This… weren’t all that bad, actually. He’d almost expected to find himself back on Kraw, but this must’ve been another one of those worlds Dell mentioned.
Well. The best way to find out was to go ask somebody, Arthur supposed. The thought of the note left by Kopaka in his journal itched at him; he wondered if he was anywhere near this Opealon place, and if so, how best to go about finding his friend.
The former outlaw glanced up and down the street. A few people walked by, but they didn't seem to be doing anything except stare at him like a bunch of bug-eyed cattle, skittish from his very presence.
Now, where to start…?
Quest: A Taboo Piece
Post Word Count: 1,303 words
Quest Word Count: 1,303/10,000