The Seven Stages of Empathic Mimicry (II)
2: Affectation
The main warehouse was big, but it didn't compare to the basement in neither length nor width. It was there that most of the long-term supplies of the fortress were stored, and the quartermaster of the keep had an office near the back on the left-most side as well. On normal days the place was packed around two thirds of the way with sacks, crates and chests of various goods, from potatoes, salt, spices and smoked meats to fabrics, paints, leather and even iron, in ore and ingots both. All neatly stashed by term and category.
Today was not a normal day. Not because the place was in any way fuller or emptier (which it wasn't), or because it was warmer or cooler than the earthy temperature just right for storing wine (which, again, it wasn't), but because it was populated with more than the quartermaster (who had a day off anyway). Specifically, Jondalar the combat trainer was there, as was Obe the illusionist. Obe, who was animating a number of illusionary monsters which a number of Candlekeep Watchers (those off duty, Cyrus counted) were practicing group combat against. The arrows and bolts were for them in fact. Cyrus got saddled with the task of bringing them over because he had to get Winthrop another crate of the cider that was so very popular with visiting nobles, and since there wasn't any left in Reevor's storehouse (and the Dwarf still hadn't come back from meeting up with visiting clansmen in Beregost, incidentally) Cyrus would have to go to the ultimate source anyway, so he may as well run that errand at the same time as well, there's a good lad.
Good lad. Good. What would Winthrop say if he knew better, Cyrus wondered?
The basement was not quiet. It was most definitely unquiet, practically boiling with sounds of metal on metal, shouts, winding bowstrings, chants and spell lights. Cyrus paused at the foot of the stairs and stared at the chaos for a few moments. Chaos that Jondalar was trying and failing to yell some sense into while Obe was trying and failing to hide his snickers right next to him.
"No! NO, Fuller, when that happens you thrust. I said thrust! No, don't swing as if you're trying to fan the bad goblin's bad mood away! Oh for Oghma's sake, Davros, it's a hobgoblin sapper! You don't turn your back on the assassin! No, not even to go after the mage! Why…? BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT HULL IS ALREADY DOING! So you don't have to pull stupid maneuvers like that and… leave your mage for the sapper to slaughter apparently… Well, you're still alive! But lo, shockingly, your new friend isn't! So now you'll just have to hope the invisible enemy mage doesn't burn you to a total crisp when it finishes its nice fire spell because you couldn't be bothered to keep your mage alive until it dispelled the concealment! (Gods, Obe, why do I even bother asking you to come conjure illusionary helpers for these idiots?) Oh for… Marl, Fire at the bloody kobold! Yes, the one with the nice little fire arrows, not at the bloody skeleton! (Oh Torm, give me strength that I might manage not to strangle him for trying to hit such a tough target that also happens to be literally made of holes again). And there's the burning hands…"
It seemed that everyone was busy. Also, Jondalar appeared to be a more complex man than Cyrus had previously thought, considering that the god he cursed by was different from the one he prayed to.
Wasn't there some sort of eternal punishment associated with that? Or did that no longer apply now that Myrkul wasn't around to torment the departed anymore? Cyrus was fairly certain that Cyric was by and large considered to be in no way better, and those who disagreed generally did so only because they were adamant he was, in fact, even worse.
Shrugging, Cyrus decided not to draw unnecessary attention to himself. That Jondalar chose that very moment to yell at Fuller for not paying enough attention only enforced that decision.
The boy quietly made his way around and behind the commotion. He couldn't stay right next to the wall since there were too many containers alongside, but there was plenty of room nevertheless. If Jondalar, Obe or someone else had the attention to spare, they would notice him soon enough anyway, seeing as how he was already entering their sight range, even if just from their far left side.
He was ten paces away from the sturdy (if old) table holding most of the spare practice equipment when his death flashed before his eyes.
Twice.
Well used to such things by now – Imoen never seemed to realise how close he came to dying every time she only barely failed to startle him off the roof, eaves or crenellation of this or that building – Cyrus abruptly stopped, leaned his head backwards and held the arrow cloth-wrapped stack of arrows up and to the right.
An illusory hobgoblin burst into smoke and the crossbow bolt that had killed it bore into a large crate with a loud thunk, shaft quivering inches from Cyrus' nose. Not that the young dwarf felt inclined to afford it much attention, or the gasps and cries of alarm from the other side of the room. No, his attention was on the arrow tip just a couple of centimetres from his ear, barely stopped by the bundle he'd brought in its path. The arrow had gone more than half-way through by the time it stopped its flight.
Frowning at the potential damage to the new ammunition this might have resulted in, Cyrus lowered the arrow bundle, dropped the bolts so he'd have a free left hand to pull the used one out of the crate – which took a couple of good tugs – then grabbed said bundle again and made for his intended destination. Once finally there, he set the bolts near the table edge and the arrow bundle in the middle to inspect the damage.
It turned out that the arrow had gone right through but not all the way to the back feather.
Well, one arrow feather would not be too much of a loss, especially since it could be redone. Cyrus grabbed the arrow from below the head and firmly pulled, using his other hand to press the feather closer to the shaft. With some careful handling the whole thing came out with minimal damage, and the lack of wood chips or splinters implied that the new arrows hadn't been harmed much either, if at all. Finally unfolding the bundle and spreading the arrows wider confirmed it, only three of them had been touched, with just one having actually broken.
Reasoning that he had exhibited the proper level of conscientiousness his father expected of him, Cyrus decided he was ready to acknowledge how quiet the entire area had become since his latest brush with that ever returning visitor called death.
He was met by eight stares ranging from incredulously relieved to gapingly disbelieving. Save for Jondalar who was looking at him with a stern not-quite-a-glare, though his self-light was a matter not so different from that of the others. "Lad, what were you thinking!?" The man snapped, then seemed to catch himself from yelling at him like he'd been yelling at his men up to that point. "You could have been seriously hurt just now."
This was another one of those increasingly frequent situations when he was expected to answer even though he hadn't been asked a question. "Yes," Cyrus answered politely.
That seemed to just intensify the stares and deepen the silence.
Then Obe sighed with what was probably exasperation. Cyrus wasn't perfectly sure of his ability to distinguish the nuance from impatience and annoyance, not on someone he didn't spend much time with, though he assumed the impatience was less likely than the annoyance here. He was fairly sure exasperation was the best bet though. "What were you thinking just now then?"
"I was thinking I would finish delivering the ammunition so I could set about Winthrop's other errand I'm running."
Fuller snickered something about him always being at the beck and call of the "old bags" and how he's glad he outgrew that stage. This made Jondalar's self-light flicker with irritation at him for a few moments before it cleared.
"That's not what I meant, kid," the head trainer sighed. "I mean why did you place yourself in danger like that?"
"Like what?" Cyrus asked, honestly perplexed. "Was that danger grave? I'm usually in more danger of dying when I nap on the roof of the bunkhouse." Because of Imoen and her never-ending crusade to catch him by surprise which, ironically, became more and more futile the harder and better she got at trying due to the extra surprise factor only increasing his likelihood of death by fall-resulting-in-broken-neck and, thus, more obvious to him. But he wasn't about to say any of that. Everyone would assume the worst of her and while it was generally deserved (and blessedly ineffectual) most of the time, it really wasn't her fault in this.
Jondalar groaned and pinched his nosebridge. "Never mind. I am not qualified to deal with this." He looked at Cyrus again. "Now what errand was that?"
"I'm supposed to bring him a case of cider bottles, since the storehouse is out." The boy looked at where the cases of such usually rested. And where there currently weren't any. "Should I tell him there aren't any left?"
The conversation grew to include a few of the others and swung between the idea of sending him away empty-handed, telling him to come back later, telling him to send someone else later, and waiting for one or more of them to fill some fresh bottles from one of the untapped barrels. In the end, the last option was chosen after Hull mentioned that it would probably all fall to them anyway, now or later, since the quartermaster wasn't available and they were already there anyway so they may as well just double-down while Cyrus waited.
The dwarf drew on Gorion's thorough lessons in manners and politely thanked Hull for his consideration, and the 21-year-old ruffled his hair with a smile in response. Cyrus decided not to show the puzzlement on his face. He never quite understood the point of that act, but seeing Hull's self-light flicker brightly with good (fond?) humour implied there was definitely some point and use to it, even if Cyrus himself didn't feel it.
"Ha! Forget about it, you're not the only one who went through the runaround phase," Hull told him. "Sure, you and the hellion are the youngest kids by far to live in this fortress, but there isn't much difference in what you do compared to what the junior monks and Watchers have to do. Won't last forever though." He drew his sword and made a couple of loose swings. "Soon enough you'll be down here, swinging a blade with the rest of us, you'll see."