2020-07-27 - The Key to Everything

The Dream breaks apart, sending them back to their lives.

Or does it?

Ruiz finds himself in the same clothing he was wearing when he went to kill the Wizard Griffin. He's even got those fancy, flintlock guns he picked out. He's not in the town, though the smell of the ocean and the feel of a chill, damp wind blowing inland tells him he's still close to the coast. He's in a forest, next to a river, with a hunting lodge sitting before him. It was once a grand affair, arcing over the river via a footbridge, with a sweeping front porch and fancy, stained glass windows. Now it's in dire need of fixing up: the roof has more than its fair share of moss and lichen, some of the siding and molding is rotted, the bridge looks treacherous at best. Yet it seems habitable enough. The windows are clean and whole, the frame's stable.

Out front a young girl is sweeping with a too-large broom. She's got that getting-over-being-malnourished look, scrawny and spare, her hair and eyes wild-looking. Scars trail up one side of her face into her hair, leaving a few locks of it white.

She stops when she sees Ruiz, considering him. "She's around back," she says, gesturing to a well-worn path that leads around behind the lodge. Her voice is husky and low. "Expecting' ya."

The porch has dilapidated benches and chairs for sitting on, and more than a few boards in desperate need of replacement. The steps creek threateningly as Ruiz steps on them.

The interior is similar to the exterior: former opulence fallen into disuse, slowly undergoing repairs. The windows seem recently cleaned, to go by the dirty rags and buckets of filthy water scattered around under them. The stained glass depicts scenes of great hunts: here a unicorn, black and greenish-bronze-gold, chased by men armed with bows, riding wolves; there a glorious firebird, harassed by men with cages and nets on the backs of foxes; over there, a great elk stag, its antlers ablaze with pale lavender flame in a crown of destruction, daring a foolish band of hunters on foot and armed with spears to come closer; directly in front of him, a distressingly familiar harpy, furious in her defiance of the men riding great cats come to strike her down, slashing at them in her rage.

A huge, once-grand staircase sweeps up to the second floor. In shadow beneath it is a small side-door, the kind servants use to bring things to and from a larger room meant for people of higher station. To his left is a door leading into the kitchen; beyond that, he sees another door that leads out back. He can hear sounds of swords crossing and fighting from that door.

There's no sound in the lodge as Ruiz moves through it, no indication anyone is upstairs or in the other rooms. The kitchen seems to be at a pause in proceedings; there's bowls set aside with handcloths laid over them, probably with rising dough, and a pot simmering over the hearth, the remains of chopped vegetables heaped in what may be a compost pile.

Out the back door is a grassy meadow, part of which has been set up for training. Straw targets bristle with arrows, a few sack dummies teeter precariously, scored from abuse. At the center is Coira, with some of that rough looking crowd watching as she spars with a young woman.

The young woman is fast, but Coira is faster. They're wielding shortswords, movements brutal, efficient, direct. There's no showmanship in how they fight. This is the sort of style used to land a killing blow as quickly as possible. They're both well padded, though, including neck guards, and the blades are blunted and dull.

The moment Ruiz steps out of the building a few pairs of eyes snap to him, tense and ready, though he's recognized immediately and they all relax. Coira and the girl take no notice; they're focused on the situation at hand.

There's very little room for error in sparring with Coira, that much is certain. She never lets the distance between them get too great, never allows the girl to escape her reach. She's right up in her space, crowding it, as she should with someone smaller. How she'd handle a larger person is an open question. She leaves bruises rather than anything more lasting; notes for the girl to remember where to guard herself, where she could stand to improve.

Eventually she disarms the girl and sends her sprawling. The girl curses, rolling to her feet and retrieving her blade. She freezes, though, seeing Ruiz, and Coira turns to look. Her expression lightens. "Ah. Yes." Her eyes flit to the guns, back to his. "Come for your payment, then?"

The girl Coira was sparring with stares at Ruiz. It's the stare of 'lesser men have been stabbed for that kind of tone'. Accordingly, she moves away, plainly expecting something of that kind to happen.

But Ruiz is a Maestro, and Coira isn't foolish. She studies him, silent and thoughtful. "It's true, then, what's said. That some of you are at fortune's mercy, and come and go only at its whim." She nods at the building. "My collection's in there. I can show you around, you can pick something else. Unless," she spreads her hands, gesturing at the well-worn dirt, "you care to spar instead."

More than a few of her people tense up. Maestros aren't to be trusted. They're capricious and powerful; a deadly combination.

Coira seems honestly surprised by this admission. Her eyes brighten. The Maestro doesn't know swords, and yet, he handles guns with ease. What then might he know? Because it's Coira who wants to learn from him.

"We may spar unarmed, if that's more familiar to you." She moves to set her practice blade aside with some others, nods at one of her people. There's a pile of practice pads there, to help blunt the blows taken, and a boy begins rifling through it. He pauses now and then to give Ruiz a once over, trying to gauge his size.

Everyone is eyeing that sidearm with curiosity. It's enough like the flintlock pistols that they're reasonably sure what it is--but this is unlike any gun they've ever encountered. Small, less ornate, more brutally functional. Closer to a cold-iron dagger than a pistol. None of them touch it, though, save the boy who carefully places it aside with a reverence befitting a fine showpiece.

Coira moves as Ruiz does, keeping just out of his reach. Just barely. "Mmmm. Because you have far more dangerous weapons." She doesn't look to the gun her people have been eyeballing. She'll trust he knows what she means. "The world Maestros come from is much different than ours, I'm lead to understand. It must be, to produce people such as yourselves."

She considers the question of 'until when'. "Surrender," she says. "We do not spar to injure. We're not blessed with a Maestro on staff to heal us." And then she's coming at him, aiming right for his inner thigh.

No smiles from Crois as she and Ruiz engage; her features are clear, her attention focused. Unlike him, she watches his eyes, realizes a second too late that lovely bruise she's leaving on his thigh is going to cost her. She grits her teeth against the strike to her ribs; it's enough to bruise, certainly. Yet instead of backing off, she doubles down, using their mutual proximity to go right for his solar plexus.

Coira is herself looking for such an opening; doesn't find it, and growls when he tangles up her legs and snares her around the shoulders. This is a problem, as she's fast, but nowhere near as strong as Ruiz, nor as heavy. She doesn't stop trying, aiming for his knee and instep (though she's kind enough to leave the choicest weak spot out of this--probably for Itzhak's sake).

Coira's people have been watching with rapt attention, murmuring to one another, noting things. When will they ever watch a Maestro fight in unarmed combat again? Probably never. So they make no attempt to hide their excitement, nor their learning process. Make no mistake: they're noting what de la Vega's done to best her.

Coira doesn't give up easily. She tries a few more things here and there, testing possibilities. But no, unless she wants to really get nasty--and she doesn't, because at the end of the day the point is to know one another, not win--she has little choice. "I yield," she says, no reluctance or churlishness in her surrender.

Coira accepts the hand up without hesitation. "You're welcome, but I should be thanking you. How often does one have a chance to spar with a Maestro?" She's panting, yet also smiling, fierce and happy. She didn't get her ass kicked, after all. That counts for something!

Her people clap, some of them laughing, some nudging one another, others exchanging coins. Ah yes--there were bets. She dips her head, nods at the lodge. "Your payment, and a drink, if you wish. We've mead, ale, and cider."

The young woman Coira was training with before offers them each a towel. The boy who'd taken Ruiz's sidearm comes up, offering it to him immediately. This is a Maestro's weapon; it shouldn't be out of his possession any longer than necessary.

Coira holds that hand a little longer than necessary in turn, gives him a small, private smile that's lost when she wipes off her face and her neck. "Aranya. Teach the others until we're done." The young woman she was sparring with when Ruiz arrived nods and goes to fetch her sword, jerking her head at one of the boys, who groans and goes to pull on his practice pads.

Coira sheds her practice armor, which leaves her in a simple, pale tunic with black, scroll embroidery over the same leather pants and boots Ruiz saw her in when she hired them. She gestures at the lodge, moves towards it. "I had always wondered if Maestros trained in the physical arts," she says, eyeing him sidelong. "Much of your power requires no physical prowess, I think, like a wizard's, and many wizards neglect such studies." 'Neglect'. It's not an accidental word choice.

Coira seems amused by the consideration, though there's a sense of being careful in her reactions. Perhaps understandable; here, Ruiz is a powerful and inscrutable creature that the denizens of the Dream barely understand. It would be unwise, bordering on dangerous, to get too entangled with him. But that doesn't mean she's not willing to enjoy herself a little.

Aranya stares at Ruiz when he speaks, plainly trying to place the words. "Ah...thank you," she says, maybe taking it for a compliment. She's getting jealous stares from the other. The Maestro spoke to her! Ugh, he didn't speak to them.

As soon as he turns to go Coira rounds them up into more sparring. She's not going to let them gawk as he walks off with Herself, oh no she is not.

Inside the kitchen, Coira fetches a large jug and pours out two portions of cider into hammered copper goblets, offering one to Ruiz. It's a multi-fruit cider, a bit like a mix of pear, apple, and cranberry. "True enough--wizards, their power is different than yours. And wizards can't come and go across time and space as you seem to."

Coira studies Ruiz a time after he says that. In response she moves to a pantry and pulls out a loaf of that same dark, oat-crusted bread that was on offer in the tavern, and a small glass jar of honey butter. She gets plates and a bread knife as well, places it all between the two of them. Then, she sits.

"As all of you have said," she points out. "But an agreement is an agreement. I won't have you leave here able to say you went without payment." She cuts a slice of bread for him, pushes it across on a plate. Another for herself, which she liberally slathers with the honey butter. "Even if you didn't intend to do so, another might use the information against me. Throw whatever you choose away, or pass it on to another--the choice is yours."

Coira makes no attempt to hide that she's been studying the tattoos; wizards use them readily enough, so why wouldn't Maestros. Not that she expects to elucidate their function on sight alone, but it's worth knowing them. Sometime in the future she can refer to 'the Maestro with the firebird and the fish' and someone will know who that is, perhaps.

Her hands, though lacking any tattoos, are scarred and rough, calloused, long fingered. Hands that have done a great deal of manual labor, trained hard with weapons. If she's to be a queen, she won't be one whose delicate touch warrants a song, whose fingers invite poetry.

She arches an eyebrow at him. "You may choose from my collection," she corrects him. "However." She has a bit more bread, "I will entertain alternative requests." Her teasing fades some into a more serious expression. "You and your company relieved me of a grievous enemy. I don't take that lightly."

Coira's eyes narrow at the unfamiliar language. The Maestros have been a series of enigmas for her to puzzle over, each more curious than the last. She thinks they must come from a truly dangerous and bizarre place, to produce such people.

Take this one, who bristles--habitually, though not rudely--at following the rules of another, even as a guest. She's used to being feared, to people watching her, waiting for the wizard's prophecy to come true. To people walking on eggshells around her.

Not so, this man. He walks without fear, tests boundaries, teases out reactions. It's a welcome change.

"Indeed they are. But I thank you for abiding by them, none the less." She raises her goblet to him, has a drink. "Your man has come and gone. The one who hates his clothes." She sounds confused on this last part, but it's how she knows Itzhak best.

If Coira realizes (or maybe 'minds' is the more salient concern) that Ruiz gets the benefit of letting her lead, there's no indication. She heads out of the kitchen and across the entry hall with its grand display of stained glass, under the staircase to a small servants' entrance door. She opens it, and beyond is a great room, complete with a huge, blackened fireplace. The walls are bare, but this was obviously a trophy room. And it was packed with them, to go by the tight, geometric arrangement of ghostly shapes where soot was kept off the walls by the heads and horns of who knew how many kinds of animal. Those are all long gone. Now, it's packed with things.

Coira had said she had a collection, and this wasn't any form of hyperbole. The usual fancy furniture one would find in a room like this has been replaced with display cases, work tables, and dressers, and every surface is covered. From fancy scrying orbs to ornate staffs to figurines to large glass jars of knicknacks: if it might be valuable, it's in here.

Coira watches Ruiz, noting how, unlike the others, he's less immediately interested, less pulled into the room and its things. It sets him apart from the others in some way she can't entirely understand. His connection to the power is markedly different.

It takes some time, but eventually, Ruiz finds himself drawn towards what looks like an old vanity. The mirror is missing, the two arms of the frame now pressed into service to hold up a a banner. It's a tattered, threadbare version of what Ruiz saw in the wizard's dying vision: a huge, knotwork boar embroidered in gold thread on carmine fabric, with crossed spears behind it.

The top of the vanity has an arrangement of items. A tortoise-shell brush and comb set, an old pocket watch on a chain, a set of artists brushes, and a key.

It's the key that stands out to him, shining more brightly, looking more distinct than anything else in the room. It's an old, skeleton-style key, with an ivory bow bearing a carving of an owl carrying a mouse in its talons. The bronze shaft and teeth have tiny symbols carved into them, too small to read without picking it up, given his eye-sight situation.

Coira is watching Ruiz from where they first entered, as she's watched each of them find and claim their reward. She narrows her eyes at the key as he reaches for it, and for a second, it looks like she might actually object. She doesn't, though, pulling up short. A deal is a deal.

Ruiz's fingers graze the owl holding the mouse, and he hears a voice in his mind, scratchy with age, sharp and shrewd.

Ah, there you are, wolf of the glade and impenetrable fortress. I knew we'd meet again.

He can almost make out the symbols on the key: a rose with an eye at the center, a fouled anchor, a tortoise shell, a letter sealed with wax, a house walking on chicken legs--

But you're done here for now. Onward.

The key slides off the vanity and out of his hand, and the world wrenches sideways. A bone white crow wings by him, cawing once.

Clarence.

He falls, and falls, to the floor of where he was before the Dream took him.