Take A Walk With Me (One-Shots and More)

The Wharf

#2 in the Overthrown mini-series

(The above video contains scenes of death. You have been warned)

The pick felt heavy in his hands. Despite the muscle he had gained over the years, it still weighed him down by the end of the day.

The early mornings were filled with cleaning. At noon, boats were rowed to shore. In the afternoon, mining ensued on the shores. Night promised the only meal of the day and a row back to the main ships.

The life of a slave, especially the slave of a pirate, was a grueling one.

Jerome didn't belong here, and he knew it. His wrongdoings were non-existent. He had been framed for the murder of his own mother, whom he had been estranged from since he was young. When his parents threw him out at six or seven, he knew his life would not be easy.

This had never been what he expected.

One of the pirates who ran the ship paced the line. They were the only group allowed here, in Sea's End. According to the King, they shared their pillaged goods.

"Stand up straight, ya good for nothing brat."

It wasn't Jerome the pirate was snapping at, but he found his spine straightening. The thought was subconcious. His thoughts were elsewhere.

He had been fourteen when the King sentenced him to this life. At seventeen, overwhelming proof of his innocence was provided. A lawyer begged for his pardon.

It never came.

Because of this, Jerome hated the King - and rightfully so. He was the one who doomed him.

However, there was one release.

Once a week, on Saturday, the slaves were kept in barracks on shore. Each had a dorm.

And in Jerome's dorm snuck a particularly attractive assassin.

They had met under unusual circumstances, and made an odd pairing. The assassin was part of Fire's Heart, a loyalist group. A year or so ago, Jerome had noticed him leaping between ropes on the main ship. When he attempted the point him out to the pirates, he had been gone. That Saturday, he showed up in Jerome's dorm, and introduced himself.

Since then, they had met every week, and while Jerome swore he wasn't in love, he knew he was. Whenever he let them, the first words he heard the assassin say still rung in his head.

"You look shocked. Have you never met a killer before, killer?" A pause, then a laugh. "Of course you aren't a killer, Jerome Aceti. But I am."

His name was Mitchell Hughes.

He was gorgeous.

He was good in bed.

He was a pardoned murderer.

And he served the King.

Jerome knew he should hate him, and yet... He did not.

Fate was finnicky that way.

----

Idly, the aristocrat flipped through his book. He paused on page 328.

"Elixirs... Perfect."

Sliding his bookmark into place, he stood, darting around the room in search for ingredients and vials. Naturally, he knew the rumors about him, and they tended to amuse him. Magic was a part of his heritage, yes, but what use was magic? His knowledge of all things was far more important... Though, perhaps it was useful to be able to summon a perfectly made bed whenever he so desired. His travels often led to him to far-off places with no place to sleep but the rocky ground, and the rocky ground was no place for a nobleman like himself.

Quickly, he assembled the elixir, leaving it to stew as he dressed for a meeting. A scroll had appeared on his doorstep earlier. He was skeptical of it, as there was no signature, just the symbol of the League of the Crushed, but he decided to go anyways. The wharf wasn't a terrible place, and whoever wrote the letter had a wonderful bartering token: a book he had been seeking for quite some time. It was on the distinctive properties of Shek silk, a particularly special kind of silk from an island far, far away. He had been trying to research it for many years, as it was meant to have restorative properties, but never found the right equipment - until now, that was.

In his haste, he hadn't thought of how the person writing the letter knew that he had been looking for Shek silk.

As he neared the wharf that evening, he noticed the slaves. He trotted past them, and past the barracks, finally seeing a figure down by the bay. Assuming this was the person writing to him, he walked closer.

Immediately, his sharp eyes picked up on the tattoo of a cracked skull.

So he really was an assassin. How exciting.

"Jason Probst." The assassin lifted his head. "You are a man of money and power, no?"

"I wish to know things more than I wish for money and power," Jason said, beaming. "Do you have my book?"

"I have your book." The assassin produced it from seemingly nowhere, holding it out. Jason snatched it up. "My name is Ty. Remember it well, and please... Stay a while."

"Oh, but I must get to reading," Jason replied, glancing longingly at the novel in his hands. "There are so many mysteries about this... this silk. I simply must begin to unravel them."

"Then do so here. I have a friend I would like you to meet," Ty said, watching him carefully. Hesitating, Jason looked down at his book.

If he chose to read it here, he would not have to wait.

Smiling, Jason summoned his bed, sat down, opened his book, and promptly began to read.

He didn't notice Ty's slack-jawed expression.

----

Jason's character can be described as nothing better than, "I drink, and I know things."

He's a bard who doesn't play the flute, more or less.

Anywho, here's my birthday gift to you because in a minute or two I turn another year older so why not celebrate by introducing one of my favorite characters ever to have evered.

Chao.