Old Habits - Part 1

Part 1

Hey, listen: this the story of how I was sent to retrieve a trinket, and, like some wet-behind-the-ears shit-face, got caught at it. I like to think it's a good story, because I'm the best storyteller in the East. I used to be the best thief in the East, but that was a lifetime ago.

But keep an eye on your pockets, friend. Old habits, and all that.

The city of the Dōsjin, Tōlmarak, was an ogre-built fortress: all massive slabs of grey ironstone wedged together so tightly that an ant couldn't fart comfortably. The thing about ogre-built structures is that they're far more accommodating on the inside than they appear on the outside. They just look like that to drive away everyone except the brave... or the foolhardy.

My mam always told me that out of her thirty-two offspring, I was the most stupid. Maybe that's why the city didn't look so bad to me. It was either that or the fact that I grew up in a stronghold built by ogres, and still occupied by them. Half-ogre, that's me. I know, the grey skin is a dead giveaway, but the pointy ears? The all-black eyes? The lack of tusks? I got those traits courtesy of my elven father. He was what they call a shadow-elf, one of the crazy types. Who else would think it was a great idea to fuck an ogress twice his size? On top of that, he was a flighty asshole; as soon as he knocked up my mam, he was out of there like the hut was on fire.

She claimed I took after him. Never could keep still, and always managing to melt into the shadows when I stole some food or broke some of her pottery. I couldn't help it, that's just what shadow-elves do: take things, especially if they're really shiny, and then use their magic of concealment. What kind of magic? Well, take shadows, for example. Shadows have a lot more potential than most people think and shadow-elves, better than anyone else, know how to manipulate them properly.

I wasn't too concerned about getting into Tōlmarak, but the man beside me seemed pretty anxious. We crouched behind the scraggly bushes, watching the activity at the massive front entrance. It was made of two parts: a pair of mighty wooden doors, which were currently standing open, and a long drawbridge which crossed a moat filled with brackish water. Now and again, the dark water would ripple as the spiky fin of some smallish dragon broke the surface. All kinds of people streamed in and out; I saw a few fauns, some sea-elves, flittering fae, and even a cantering herd of centaurs. It was barely past dawn, and yet Tōlmarak was already wide-awake.

"Are you sure you can get in?" The man beside me asked. His name was Marce, and he was the 'prince' of the village that had hired me for this job. I glanced at him and shrugged.

"It's not barricaded," I pointed out, getting to my feet and adjusting my oft-repaired cloak. "I'll just walk right in."

He stood up as well. He was tall for a human, but I was slightly taller. I suppose he and I were the same age, but the lines in his brow made him appear far older than twenty winters.

"But they might be keeping Marchel locked up in a special place," Marce said, wringing his hands together and blinking rapidly. "Are you sure?"

I got a little irritated, I must admit. I scowled at him, tossing my long braid over my shoulder. The messy black hair tickled the back of my neck.

"Look, are you sure?" I asked, folding my arms over my chest. "You know who you're talking to, right? I'm Ruzhyll Delance."

"I know your name," he answered, frowning in return. "No need to repeat it."

"Obviously I need to, 'cause you seem to be forgetting who I am. Who did the Red Legion call when they wanted to swipe the crown jewels from the Talon?"

"You," Marce said, through his blackened, contorted teeth. "So they say."

I narrowed my eyes. "They're damned right, too. And who stole that talking harp from the Giant in Cloud Forest?"

"You," Marce said, even more reluctantly than before. "All the same, I hope you're worth your deposit."

"You better hope you have the rest of my payment ready when I get back your sister," I said, stepping over the bushes. "Or else I burn down your whole village."

Marce let out an incredulous scoff, and I could understand why. I'm tall, but as skinny as a broomstick, with a narrow face to match; I have a serviceable pair of tits, nice and firm, but overall I look like I can hardly light a match. I've been told that my eyes are my most striking feature: a bit larger than those seen on a pureblood elf and tipped up at the outer corners. Apart from that, I suppose I don't look like much of a threat.

I stopped walking, and snapped my fingers, concentrating very hard. With some satisfaction, I watched as blue flame erupted on my fingertips. Not very big, because I don't have that kind of power; but Marce's village has a lot of thatched roofs. Very flammable.

"Like I said," I told him very quietly as I looked over my shoulder. "I retrieve your kidnapped princess, you give me the rest of my money."

"Fine," he said, and he sneered as he folded his arms over his chest. "Get to work, half-breed."

If that was the best he could come up with, I felt kind of sorry for the future of his village. After all, any sensible village-head would demand a bond-gift from the Dōsjinni for their stolen girl, but most full-blooded humans hated the Dōsjin. I shook the flame from my fingers, and pulled the large cowl of my cloak over my head, putting my face into shadow. I felt my natural magic unfurl lazily and deepen those shadows, effectively shielding my sharp features from any close inspection. If necessary, I could do a quick glamour, but like the blue flames, that was magic I had to work hard for. It took a lot of energy out of me.

I walked right up to the end of the drawbridge, melting in easily with the busy in-going crowd. I even managed to slip my fingers into a few purses, earned seven silver coins, twelve copper and five gold. Not bad for a five-minute walk.

The city was big, but it was easy to figure out where a captive princess would be held. A tower, of course, and for its great size, Tōlmarak had but one: a massive spire rising right in the centre of the bustling town. It took me half a day to get to it, and on the way I saw more and more Dōsjinni: tall warriors dressed in battle-armour, weaponry slung over their backs or worn low on their hips. The spire stood in the middle of a great stone-paved plaza, the main roads of the city radiating from it like spokes on a great wheel. The other buildings ringed the edges of the plaza at a respectful distance.

At the steps of the tower, I peered up the wide flight. A group of Dōsjin stood at the top, chattering companionably; they seemed to be returning from patrol. One of them turned their head, looked straight at me, and I felt a jolt rush through my body. She had dark brown skin, pale grey eyes, and curly black hair cropped short. Her nose turned up ever so slightly at the tip, and her chin was softly rounded; they served as an interesting contrast to the sharpness of her gaze and the heavy shape of her eyebrows. Like the majority of Dōsjin, she was built tall and strong: a whole head taller than me. She wore form-fitting armour, covering every inch of skin. Pity; I would have loved to see if her tits were as impressive as the rest of her.

She kept staring at me, and I decided to take a direct route. Pulling back my cowl, I smiled up at her, invitingly. She smiled back and, look, you hear people talk about love at first sight, that's shit.

However, there's always lust.

I climbed the stairs, putting a great deal of swagger into my walk. The other Dōsjin, noting the fixed expression of the one still gazing, all turned to watch as well, but I barely noted them in the periphery of my vision. I couldn't seem to shift my stare from her. When I finally got to them, I executed a fanciful greeting: twirl of hand, deep sweep of arm into a bow. When I straightened, they all had similar amused expression on their faces.

"Greetings, ye mighty of Tōlmarak! I am Zorn the Amazing and Amusing," I told them, giving one of my many aliases. "I offer my services to you, at a special cost!"

They dipped their heads in reply to my exorbitant bow; for a race of ruthless fighters, I've found that the Dōsjin are deeply courteous when not in battle.

"What kind of services?" My Dōsjinni asked, her tone low. She had a massive, curved sword strapped to her back. I didn't let my gaze stray too close in that direction; it seemed sharp enough to slice my eyeballs out just for looking.

"General entertainment, Jiyiō. Minor trickery and the like," I said, sidling close to her. She smelled like weapon-oil and animal rawhide, and I picked the deep musk of her sweat. She laughed, a pleasantly deep sound, and I hoped my pronunciation hadn't been too awful. I knew a number of simple Dōsjin words and phrases; Jiyiō was one of the few I could pronounce without insulting someone's mother. I think it was a noble title of some sort, like Lady or Duke.

"I am no Jiyiō, my dear Zorn," she said, and her companions agreed with hard laughter. "You may call me Isthar."

"Isthar," I purred, going even closer to rest my palm lightly on her chestplate. She glanced down at my hand and then looked up, her gaze hot as it raked over my face. As far as I knew, the only type of magic most Dōsjinni possessed was the innate kind which aided them in fighting, and occurred to them as natural as breathing; they didn't deal with direct forms of magic, like curses and charms. Yet, I felt a powerful compulsion to just lie back, spread my legs like a reckless succubus and let her stab her tongue deep into my dampening sex. I parted my lips and one side of her generous mouth quirked up in response.

"Come, then," Isthar said and just like that, I was in.

Continued in Part 2