Chapter Text
It’s a beautiful day in Rafta (courtesy of the weather witches) and Quinn will capitalize it as much as they can. They start off by throwing some rotting eyes at someone’s roof before scaring a couple of customers with ominous visions and ending it with a hearty tug of war with Boxer. Amazingly, despite all of that action, the sun is barely at its zenith. They aren’t really keen on dealing with more heroes and foraging sounds like a drag. What else is there for Quinn to do besides finding a nice spot in the sky and taking a nap?
They laze under the warm sunlight while Boxer sways with the wind underneath Quinn. Boxer briefly considers nipping at their dangling leg, still a bit peckish, but they would berate him if he did. He is, after all, a good boy, and good boys get good treats. Their broom, on the other hand, is a lot less tamed. It slowly roams around the area while they sleep, following neither the wind nor shade but some secret third thing not even Quinn knows. (It’s not cursed—they checked.) Eventually, it ends up hovering near the port, where a large group of ships are preparing to disembark.
The noise wakes up Quinn and they grumble under their hat in annoyance. When they take a peek, they are surprised to see… civilians. The Heroes Guild must have grown large enough to support an increase in population, prompting whatever sad excuse of Raftan authority to initiate new waves of immigrants and tourism. This news comes with some good and bad for Quinn.
Good: they can sell more garbage. Bad: they’re going to have twice as much garbage.
Good: there’s more targets to hit with rotting fish. Bad: more tourism means more guards means more eyes watching.
Good: fresh meat they can terrorize. Bad: people.
They’re hoping the good outweighs the bad. Rafta has been kind to them. Anonymity afforded by Rafta’s unique isolation from the mainland and its wretched creation was the selling point for Quinn, and the main reason why they have stayed here for as long as they have. They were able to just… start fresh with Boxer. Not to mention, weird things to try out for fun. It’s a lot of hard work to start from scratch in an island that has barely recovered from its wounds, but it’s better than scrapping the alleyways and performing cheap tricks out in the cities beyond.
And, honestly, the further away they are from their old life, the better.
The ships below sound their horns and raise their anchors. They watch as the fleet slowly chugs along the waves, before disappearing into tiny dots across the horizon. Those will surely come back in a few days, no doubt filled with new faces and new frustrations. They stick their tongue out in childish disdain.
Quinn spends the rest of the day floating, wasting daylight on nothing in particular. At night, they decide to visit this one place that has been abandoned for quite some time. They heard rumors that the owner died in some gruesome fashion trying to explore Maven’s castle with only a bag of supplies and a dream. What an utter fool. Serves him right.
They make themself comfortable on the hideous chair pushed to the corner of the room. The books are musty and makes them sneeze, but there’s too much to throw out and they’re not big on cleaning up someone else’s mess. In fact, there seems to be a new stain forming on the wall. Looks like mold. They’ll save that for a rainy day.
They stretch, then yawn, then recline. Boxer settles himself among the other chests and it makes Quinn smile.
What a life. They hope it stays like this forever.
—//—
The summons came with the postcard. Reading through it, again and again, Sylvia just couldn’t believe it. Uncle Oswald is dead? She only knew him through letters and the occasional family get-together but that was enough to see him as a role model: a self-made potions witch in a dangerous and new frontier. It excited her, so much so that she did everything she could to become one.
College was hard work. Sylvia’s parents supported her, of course, and Uncle Oswald was always there to reaffirm her (usually a week later; mail still takes time to travel from Rafta to the mainland to her town). Thankfully, her good grades landed her a full-ride sponsorship for first-generation college students. She picked up a part-time job at a bakery to pay off part of her living expenses and her family scrambled to help with the rest. She lost hearing in one of her ears and she’s sure some sensation in some of her fingers are gone but despite the booms and bangs of bad cauldron brews, she’s done incredibly well in her studies.
Now, here she is… freshly graduated with a potions shop in her name on an island state at the opposite side of the world. And Uncle Oswald is dead.
She packs a large, worn duffel bag with essentials—clothes, bathroom supplies, her college notebooks, knickknacks—and says goodbye to her family. Her mom gives her the one-way ferry ticket, a small bag of coins, and a bone-crushing hug. Her dad cries, both for his brother and for his daughter. Her siblings take turns mussing up her hair but they each tell her she’ll do great. She promises to write home every week and visit every now and again.
She mounts her broom (a gift for her second year going strong) and with a final wave, she flies to the port and waits for the boat to bring her to Rafta. She’s already wondering what kind of name Oswald has made for himself over there. Judging from his previous stories, it’s sure to be a well-established store in the center of a bustling economy.
She will learn the ugly truth in time.
—//—
The ships are back. Quinn once again floats above the docks, watching as lines of people shuffle through the gangway and onto the wooden planks of the docks. Some reunite with relatives and loved ones, others go to the nearest tchotchke shop, the rest are taking pictures of everything and everyone. They have half a mind to throw something disgusting for their own sick amusement, but there’s a larger presence of heroes and guards today for whatever reason. They’ll have to do it some other time.
The increase in foot traffic means a noisier marketplace. Even up above, the din of haggling and conversations irritates them severely. They speed away to a quieter part of the coast line, right near the abandoned cliff side cathedral that was left to rot after Maven was deposed. Maven was a narcissist, considering herself a god over the island with how she treated its denizens and earth. Quinn can’t help but feel impressed. But her work is sloppy in some areas, and down right embarrassing in others.
The cathedral stands as a testament to that dead era. Having been forgotten the moment Maven was killed, nature has since reclaimed it. The ivy sticks greedily to the rough-hewn stone and a few trees have nestled itself between the dilapidated pews. Some of the stained glass windows are still up, and each one bears a canonized portrait of Maven. Like they said, down right embarrassing.
Boxer is let loose to find a cozy hole to hide in while Quinn finds their favorite spot. A part of the wall that faces the ocean crumbled sometime during their stay here in Rafta, and they pushed a nearby pew to set it in front of the hole when they noticed. They sit down and relax, breathing in the musty, stale air of the church with the fresher, cooler breeze of the water. They can hear Boxer start to snore somewhere in the background, and honestly, the thought of a nap isn't too bad right now.
They dream of stone towers and despotic rulers.
—//—
After finally getting off that 16-hour boat ride (her ass hurts!), Sylvia finds the building and has half a mind to run away. She looks at the address she scribbled on her forearm and once again at the old sign hanging from the pole. “Potions Shop” it says, then in smaller letters, “Oswald the Potion Maker” with the street name and everything. Sure enough, the writing didn’t change from the three times she checked and continued to stay the same after four turnarounds of the place. This is it. This is really it. Fuck.
The place looks… abandoned, like it’s been withering away for more than just a week. Peeking into the grimy display window, it seems worse. She takes the key from her pockets and opens the door. It creaks and moans and the layer of dust on the landing is blown away by the rushing air. She steps in and she wishes things were different.
First of all, the stench. It smells musty, damp, stale and terrible. It chokes Sylvia, grips her in a stranglehold and she gags. She brings a handkerchief up to her nose and assesses the damage. The foundation seems… okay. It squeaks in some areas and cracks in others. The drywall is barely holding on and the off-white color is now, without question, just off. There’s just piles and piles of trash everywhere! The atrium has dead plants and the ceiling has live spiders. The exposed wooden beams of the rafters looks like it’s about to give. And is that… is that a bird?
Sylvia avoids the puddles of stagnant water (another bullet point for her clean-up list) and drops her bag by the counter. Somehow, it’s in serviceable shape; it’s made of solid, decent wood, varnished and polished by an expert hand. Even more surprising is the absence of dust. Huh.
One alarming thing she notices about everything is that there’s no bedroom. Where the hell did Oswald sleep? But she spots that worn, fraying chair pushed to the corner and dreads.
“Damn it, Oswald…” Sylvia walks over to the chair and tests it. Like everything in the place, it protests against her weight. But it’s soft enough to sleep on, she supposes, and the dust seems to have avoided it too. Little victories.
The light from the overhead window illuminates Sylvia’s form as she reads the summons again. The wording is technical and sterile. The pink wax stamp, gilded silver border, thick card stock—all weigh heavily in her hands. “Considering the significant sums your uncle borrowed from our establishment, it’s certain to be an impressive piece of property.”
Sylvia looks around again. Impressive in its heyday, maybe, but not anymore. Something shuffles above and a plank drops in the center of the sales floor, the deafening boom startling Sylvia and the countless spiders that roosted on it. She sighs.
Ever the optimist, however, Sylvia settles on a game plan: clean up the place, air it out, chase the bird out of the rafters, make some potions and get some money. She reaches for her broom when—
Cold air rushes through the store and Sylvia shivers. An imposing figure stands at the entrance, the door barely tall enough to accommodate them. The hat is sharp and angular, the outfit even more so. As the stranger walks up to the counter, Sylvia can’t help but tense up at the slow unveiling.
“Forgive me for the intrusion,” the voice is colder than the night, biting. She shivers again.
Helene walks Sylvia through the situation, each sentence making the pit in her stomach grow more and more. After the world’s shittiest transaction and a soul-binding contract on top, she leaves Sylvia to deal with her first payment of ten thousand gold in two months. Sylvia slams her head on the counter, the pain not even registering from all the regret building up in her mind. She should have never come here.
The bird also falls down face first onto the counter. Sylvia learns that Owl was Oswald’s (sapient?) pet and was pivotal to his success. She doubts it, seeing as Oswald still mismanaged a million gold but she keeps the comment to herself. She’s just relieved that there’s someone to guide her through this mess, even if it’s in the form of a strange, egotistic owl with an all too familiar hat and necklace.
It just sucks to listen to him talk endlessly while she does the heavy work. But somehow, Sylvia does it. Working through the night, she manages to tidy the place up, set up a makeshift cauldron, fix the shelving and even make a work desk from spare planks. Some of the walls are still dingy and the water damage needs more than simple elbow grease but at least the store is no longer a bio-hazard.
Well, it gets a passing grade in ‘livable shack’ standards, and there’s still that strange, musty dirt caked into the corner that she can’t get out…
Whatever. She’ll deal with that later. She collapses onto the chair for some well-deserved sleep.
—//—
Quinn somehow sleeps an entire day away. They wake up when the moon has replaced the sun. They twist and pop and crack their bones, before slumping and scratching an itch somewhere on their back. Their sleep schedule is definitely fucked beyond recognition, but that’s a problem for future Quinn.
They whistle for Boxer to follow, and as they straddle their broom, he flies underneath and hangs. He smells, which means he found a few stray things to eat while they were knocked out, which means they’ll have to brush his teeth again. Oh Boxer.
They hear their stomach growl and knows it’s time for them to eat, too. There’s a late night place that serves really good meat and slime buns, and the owner’s kind enough to feed Boxer kitchen scraps. Although, they might have to decline that offer tonight. He’s getting fat for his age, even if he’s still as active as when he was a shoe box. They don’t really have the money to reinforce their old broom, and they’re too attached to replace it with a better one. It’s just easier to make sure Boxer stays a healthy weight.
They stop by the stall to eat a few plates and bowls. Boxer sits underneath them, half guarding, half hoping he gets a morsel. Quinn can’t resist treating him, so he gets one half of a slime ball. Good boys get good treats.
Finally full (and on a discount too), they feel ready for sleep once again. They find the public showers to wash away the dirt of the cathedral in order to get ready for the dirt of their abandoned shop-hovel. They shake off the excess water from their hair, and leave the rest to dry in the wind as they fly. Quinn takes the scenic route tonight, breathing in the sharp, cool air and feeling the prickles in their lungs.
As they land near the building on that patch of overgrown grass, they notice lights coming out of the front window. Strange, they don’t remember leaving the lights on. Worse yet, they didn’t even think the electricity worked. But worst of all, some freak must’ve envied their luxurious life and wanted a taste of it. They can hear the sounds of things shuffling around, too, so the culprit’s still inside. Perfect. They grit their fangs, ready their claws, and barge in.
If Quinn can help it, and by god, they will, there’s only room for one homeless asshole in this neighborhood.
—//—
Sylvia barely gets a few hours in before Owl wakes her up for the morning shift. It’s not too bad—she brews her first batch of professional potions and gets her first experience with Raftan customers. But then it’s the afternoon and Owl is already pushing her to keep going, toiling over the cauldron and talking people’s ears off and having to eat lunch in three bites. By nighttime, she’s tired and sore but feels strangely hopeful, a small smile on her face as she sweeps up. It’s kind of like working at the bakery again, although she can’t eat what she makes and her paycheck isn’t handed to her.
“I think I could get the hang of all this…”
For the second night in a row, the doorbell rings as someone just as imposing as Helene comes in. A lopsided, horned hat that stares, slumped bare shoulders, a crystal ball, and, glowing in the soft darkness, a pair of sharp, intense eyes from the shadows of the brim. They come up to the counter like they own the place. Sylvia braces herself. Not another loan shark…
“Hey, what’s the big idea? You can’t set up shop here,” their voice carries clear irritation, which only seems to grow when they realize that Sylvia is taller…
“Sure I can. I live here,” she tries to put on a friendly face, hoping to ease the conversation from its aggressive start.
“Are you invoking squatter’s rights? Because I’ve got dibs,” they respond matter-of-fact.
What?
Sylvia learns that their name is Quinn, a magical ingredients seller who has been “kicking back in this trash heap for weeks,” not that she can argue with them about that. It is a trash heap, but hopefully less so after all of her cleaning. Quinn doesn’t seem that mad about having to shove off now that Sylvia’s here but it’s probably because getting money for a hotel is better than squatting in some dirty house. Talk of a business relationship seems to have put a spring in their step, but the look they give her seems too diabolical to be completely innocent. What has she gotten herself into…?
Whatever that was, maybe she can have a friend, too! It seems as if many Raftans are implants themselves, so it’s a strange, new frontier for everyone. Hopefully Quinn isn’t an exception to the rule. She puts on her bravest face.
“I’m excited to get to know you. Maybe we can hang out!” Wow, somehow the idea of asking Quinn to be her roommate sounds way less desperate.
Sylvia’s grin falters when she sees Quinn hide behind their hat, but immediately brightens up when she hears them say, “…I dunno. I could maybe make an exception for you.”
Their voice is unsure, faltering, as if their words strained to escape their mouth. Weird, they don’t seem the type to doubt themself. Sylvia wants to prod, compelled by some force to understand more, but she has a feeling that isn’t something Quinn would welcome right now, if at all.
The two of them say their goodbyes and goodnights, and part ways as midnight strikes.
As Sylvia locks the doors and windows, she hears fluttering in the rafters above. Owl flies down rather inelegantly to land by the books.
“Well, that solves that mystery,” he announces, “I’d watch out for the mimic if I were you.”
Sylvia balks, “What mystery? What mimic?”
He suddenly puffs up at remembering that night. He happened to be staying in that night after a poor hunting session, embittered at how a giant rat beat him in a fight over some fresh bread someone threw away. He heard a loud bang and a crack as the door slammed open, revealing a witch with a ridiculous hat and a menacing, drooling mimic floating behind.
He craned to look closer at the witch, but the wooden beam he was roosting on shook violently, throwing him down onto the floor. By the time he came to, rows and rows of teeth and fangs greeted him.
“Oh, a snack. Go ahead, boy,” the witch said somewhere behind the mimic, sounding far too disinterested when they just ordered their pet to kill him. Before any kind of protest, the mimic lunged at him and he squawked and fluttered as best as he can up and away. Unfortunately, it could also fly, so he got the runaround before realizing he could push through that hole in the roof. It was large enough to squeeze through for his size, and small enough to stop the beast behind him.
He shimmied through the opening with only one feather missing from his tail. He took a moment to breathe, hearing the disappointed growling from the other side, and proceeded to avoid the place for awhile.
Sylvia couldn’t help but laugh a little. Owl is indignant, and starts hooting her ear off about having to focus on the work ahead. She waves him off, telling him that she needs to sleep since someone can’t help with the brewing or haggling, but says goodnight and pats him on the head.
He seethes, but lets it go. There’s no use fighting the only person in his corner.
—//—
Quinn isn’t really ready to give up the place to Sylvia, but they aren’t gonna deal with the lawmakers in Rafta. Too risky with too little reward. Maybe they could’ve schmoozed her out of it but she seems… pitiful, and it looked like she needed a win.
Fuck, whatever. They have other places to crash. Still, they roughly ruffle their hair in annoyance. Boxer whines from under their seat, and they pet him gently to let him know things are okay. They fly to nowhere in particular—they suppose the cathedral is always waiting for them.
But what was up with that hangout business, too, anyway? It was kind of embarrassing how their voice started dying at the end. They’re not a kid with some playground crush, but Sylvia seems to have evoked that reality somehow. They ruffle their hair again, now flustered than anything.
She’s just excited to make a friend, that’s all. She’s obviously new to Rafta if she doesn’t know them. Soon, she’ll learn why a lot of people tend to leave them alone, and only really risking an interaction if they need a desperate trade. Then, then. She’ll do the same as everyone else.
That’s all.