Chapter Two: Strugglers

Our pal Grisha is drinking alone until his friend returns with a troubling gift.

The liquor in Monsport just wasn’t the same. Grisha was already three glasses of Cathari Whisky deep�"each strong enough to bite at the back of his throat but smooth enough to make him consider ordering another. Even if it was better than the liquor he’d drunk in Marvusia, it wasn’t the taste of home.

Still, the idea of drinking his sorrows away was tempting, but he was still mindful enough to stop himself. If he got properly sloshed, he’d just wake up the next day with the same unsolvable problems�"and a splitting headache to boot.

Instead, he settled for nursing his whiskey, letting the slow burn of the amber liquid keep him grounded. At the price per shot, savoring it seemed only sensible. If Deveron doesn’t get back soon, I’ll have to stop drinking anyway, he thought, swirling the liquor in his glass. His full of himself associate had promised to pick up the tab, but that had been before he slipped off into the night.

Can’t pay the bill if you wander off halfway through the night, he mused bitterly.

Small blonde hairs speckled his face with a gruff radiance that went well with his general appearance if not his attitude. Grisha was a tall man, broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip. Ever since he’d shot up like a weed at fourteen, he’d felt like a rather gangly creature, but practice let him move with a rather cumbersome grace. He pulled another sip from his glass as he took in the Coldwater Bay in all its unimpressive majesty.

The bar itself was a testament to Monsport’s peculiar charm. It straddled the line between elegance and decay. Oil lamps cast a warm glow over scuffed wooden tables, and the faint hum of a distant piano mingled with the low murmur of conversation. The patrons were a mix of dockworkers, sailors, merchants, and travelers, all united by the unspoken desire to forget their troubles for a while.

Grisha leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of Deveron. The man had a knack for excusing himself at the worst possible times, and tonight was no different. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the counter�"a silent reminder of plans interrupted.

The drink wasn’t working the way he’d hoped. Each sip dulled the edge of his frustration, sure, but it couldn’t drown out the nagging sense of unease that had trailed him since the Hell That Was.

Tzang’shi. Even the name felt like a hand tightening around his throat. Memories clawed their way to the surface�"a nation fractured and bleeding, a crucible of suffering and strife, a girl's face as she lay dying in his arms. Grisha emptied the rest of his glass in one sharp motion, the burn doing little to chase away the ghost of that place.

It wasn’t just Deveron’s absence that set him on edge. There was something about the way the locals moved in this city�"furtive glances over their shoulders, conversations clipped and guarded. Even the bartender had hesitated, just for a moment, before pouring him the first drink.

They knew. They always knew. Grisha was a Marvusian, an outsider. His accent was thick, the Korric tongue still an unruly beast in his mouth. And there was his hair�"dirty blonde, the stereotype of his people, marking him like a brand. Besides that, his harsh features had never been the most inviting. His chin was like the reinforced prow of a ramship, and his eyes were perpetually sunken like he hadn’t slept well, both the blue good one and the one that looked like he’d pilfered it from a grave. They were, again, not uncommon features among those of the Marvusian heartland. He had hoped the seaport’s trade might make Marvusians a more common sight, but if there were others here, they weren’t drinking at the Coldwater Bay.

Grisha set his empty glass down with a soft clink, his fingers curling around the rim as his unease deepened. The door to the bar creaked open, the sound cutting through the muted din like a rising guillotine.

He didn’t look immediately, letting the moment hang, but his grip on the glass tightened. His instincts, honed through years of hardship, whispered threats in his ear.

The door opened wider, spilling a thin shaft of cold, damp air into the bar that danced unwelcome across Grisha’s back. A figure stepped inside, their silhouette outlined briefly against the lanterns of the street before the door swung shut behind them with a sharp clack.

Grisha’s eyes stayed fixed on his glass, the faint tremor in his hand betraying his familiarity with what so often came next in his line of work. He listened intently �"the scrape of boots on the wooden floor, the familiar chime of spurs, and the low hum of muttered greetings as the newcomer passed through the bar all ran past his pricked ears. The heavy wool of a coat, shedding splashing drips onto the floor, told him it had started to rain outside.

Someone would come for me. He figured as he pulled at the darkest parts of himself. He’d survived too many times to die in some dingy bar.

When the boots stopped just short of his table, Grisha finally looked up and smiled with relief.

The man before him was a bit tall, not particularly broad, and wrapped in a rich blue greatcoat that clung to him, damp with rain. His face was plain, with a soft jaw that hinted at youth despite the weariness in his eyes. The little scruff of hair on his chin and lip looked even more pathetic now that it was soaked. A wide-brimmed hat cast his face in shadow, but it couldn’t hide the confident, almost smug smile that so often dominated the face of his friend.

“Deveron,” Grisha said flatly, leaning back in his chair and stroking at his chin hair.

“Grisha,” Deveron replied, tipping his hat as he pulled out the chair opposite him. He sat with a casual grace that belied the tension in his movements, like a cat ready to spring at the first sign of danger or prey.

“You’ve been gone a while,” Grisha said, his voice gentle but tinged with accusation.

“Had some business to attend to,” Deveron replied smoothly, sliding a gunbelt across the table toward him. “Try this on.”

Grisha eyed the belt with a wary expression, his concern evident. He didn’t reach for it immediately, his fingers drumming once against the wood of the table.

“What is this?” he asked, his tone flat.

Deveron leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’m not always gonna be around to pull your a*s out of the fire. If we’re going to be partners going forward, you’ll need to learn to fend for yourself.”

“That’s fine and all,” Grisha said, lifting the gunbelt carefully. His sharp eyes immediately caught the dark stains on the leather. “But there’s blood on this, Deveron. Where did you get it?”

Deveron’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before returning, all the sharper. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Never you mind where I got it. Just put it on.”

Grisha frowned but didn’t argue; it would get him nowhere. “Maiden’s sake, alright,” he muttered, unbuckling the belt and sliding it around his waist. 

Grisha adjusted the belt, his fingers fumbling slightly as he fit the buckle into place. It felt strange; heavy in a way that was more than just the weight of the revolver. He wasn’t used to carrying a weapon�"at least, not one like this.

The holster was snug around his waist, the leather worn smooth in places from use but still a masterpiece in its own right. The revolver itself was a fine piece of craftsmanship, with a dark walnut grip and a barrel that gleamed faintly in the bar’s dim light. Grisha drew it halfway, testing the weight, before letting it slide back into the holster with a soft snick.

“You sure about this?” Grisha asked, his voice low. “I’ve only shot a gun a few times… One of those times was at you.”

Deveron tipped his hat back with a flick as he leaned in. “And you were a terrible shot. Give it time�"I’ll fix that. You’ll learn. Trust me.”

Grisha wasn’t sure if that was meant to be comforting. The way Deveron said “trust me” left much to be desired. He leaned back in his chair, the revolver pressing awkwardly against his hip, and took a slow breath. “So, what’s the plan now? Or did you come back just to arm me and vanish again?”

Deveron’s grin widened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “The plan is to get out of Monsport before things get messy.”

“Messy how?” 

Deveron sighed, tossing a few crumpled Imperial bills onto the table. “And here I thought you were supposed to be educated. All you ever ask are stupid questions.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “We’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?” Grisha said as he rushed to copy his companion.

“You’re going to the stables to buy us some horses,” Deveron said, adjusting his coat. “I’ve got other business to attend to.”

“I’m not sure I trust your business acumen,” Grisha replied, gesturing towards his new, only slightly bloody, gunbelt.

Deveron chuckled, shaking his head. “Relax. It’s nothing more than a job prospect. It’ll be fine.”

Grisha watched him turn toward the door, rainwater still dripping from his greatcoat, and felt the familiar knot of doubt tighten in his chest.