Bloodline Descents

Chapter Five

Elias (formerly addressed as Cloud) left Pale Garden at a steady, unhurried stride. The rod remained loosely in his grip, though the street ahead lay empty and undisturbed. He cast a quick glance at the brass pocket watch in his pocket — barely thirty minutes had passed since stepping through the graveyard gates. A pitifully short span to upend a man's certainties, though that seemed to be the order of this damned week.

The streets of Ebonrest's outer quarter held their usual mist-draped quiet. Curfew markers were already nailed to doorframes; no lamps burned in the upper windows, and no footstep dared echo off the cobbles despite the fact that hours remained till curfew. Elias kept his pace even, his gaze roaming through alley gaps and shuttered shopfronts as a matter of habit.

By the time his flat loomed ahead, Elias felt no lingering tension from the graveyard. The rod remained at his side as he slipped through the entrance and shut the door behind him with a quiet click.

The flat greeted him in the same battered, begrudging state it always did. He crossed to the lopsided table, struck the match, and lit the oil lamp. A sickly orange glow chased the shadows from the walls, throwing light over the threadbare furnishings and cracked floorboards.

"That's more like it..."

He reached for the jug and poured a glass of water. And now It tasted of stagnant gutter run-off, but it was wet, and right now that was all that mattered.

Setting the glass aside, he dragged a scrap of parchment from beneath the ledger book and scrawled down the night's findings in Elias Warden's pitiful excuse for handwriting.

> Pale Garden — scroll / other three Descendants exist, already aware. Hollow Chapel's bloodline hunt, perhaps. Fifth seat inquisitor (What does that even mean?). Ashward Manse (Gloomrise street) holds records. Find the other Descendants. Some Medivial floating Google is in town.

He eyed it for a moment, then muttered to himself:

"Half-reliable bullshit medieval Google."

After that, he returned the rod into the drawer with a dull clack, resting beside the map. The letter and parchment scrap stayed on the table — what passed for insurance in this cesspit of a world. Then, he leaned back, one hand resting on the table, and let a thought drift through.

I wonder if whoever catches the first taste of my loyal rod will scream... or just gurgle. Heh-heh-heh. Ugh ~ whatever. I'm starting to get edgy...

A dry smirk tugged at his lips. He downed the rest of the water reluctantly, snuffed the lamp, and moved for the bed.

Tomorrow marked wage collection and his severance from that cursed mine. On Sunday evening, he would deal with the Ashward Manse.

***

The Next Morning

The South Mine's yard lay quiet when Elias arrived. There was no bell ringing, and no carts rattled along the path. A few idle men dawdled near the gate, trading muttered words and watching for trouble like starved dogs sniffing for scraps.

Elias arrived deliberately late as a calculated insult, and he knew the overseer would be seething.

Sure enough, there he was. Roldan Barrett stood by the payroll table, thick-bearded and scowling as though the sun itself had done him personal offence.

"You've some gall, Warden," Roldan barked the moment Elias approached. "Skivin' off, and now you turn up for your bloody coin? I ought to dock you the lot."

Elias said nothing. The look he gave was cold — the kind of stare men carried back from wars or far worse places. Roldan's bluster faltered. His mouth opened and closed once before he grunted and shoved eighteen shillings across the table.

"Thank you, boss..."

Perhaps I shouldn't quit... yet.

Elias pocketed the coins without hurry, offered a faint, humourless smile, and turned away.

Behind him, Roldan's gaze constricted. A twitch of his wrist sent three rough-looking miners drifting from the far wall. One was squat and thick through the shoulders, another lank and shifty-eyed, and the last carried a half-healed scar across his jaw.

Elias caught sight of them immediately and sighed inwardly.

"Pathetic."

As he reached the gate, the thick-shouldered one called out, "Warden. Hand over the pay, eh? You know how it is. Wouldn't want to limp home empty-handed."

Elias barely turned his head.

"Weight class matters," he said dismissively.

The moment the brute charged, Elias was ready. This wasn't instinct born of this poverty-stricken timeline, but muscle memory from his original self. Long before fate had dumped him here, he'd trained in mixed martial arts and perfected in it... But never went professional because he couldn't be bothered with the discipline, the meal plans, or the early-morning runs. Still, the drills stuck.

In less than twenty seconds, he had dealt with all three. The squat miner caught a sharp elbow across the bridge of his nose, cartilage cracking and blood spraying. The lanky one rushed in next, but Elias caught his momentum, locked him in a clinch, and drove a knee hard into his ribs. The man folded with a breathless wheeze. The scar-faced thug followed with a clumsy hook, telegraphed well in advance. Elias slipped it without effort, seized the man's wrist, pivoted cleanly, and sent him skull-first into the mud. There was no wasted motion and not a scratch on him.

Elias brushed the dust from his coat and strolled back to the payroll table as though nothing had happened. Roldan's face drained of colour the moment he saw him returning unscathed.

Where in the blazes had this mutt learned to move like that?

Roldan's gut twisted at the thought. That wasn't the sort of thing a man picked up swinging picks and shovels.

Elias reached the table, planted a hand on Roldan's shoulder, and shoved him aside without ceremony. The overseer stumbled back a step, his face reddening with shock.

"Well then, boss," Elias said coolly as he lowered himself into the man's own chair and crossed his legs on the table. "I make that attempted robbery, dereliction of duty, and aggravated imbecility. By my reckoning, you owe me seventy-seven shillings. Nine hundred and eighteen pence, if we're being precise."

Roldan swallowed hard, sweat beading beneath the wiry tangle of his beard. His face twitched, and under his breath came a string of bitter curses.

"Bloody jumped-up bastard… arrogant little shite… should've slit his throat when I had the chance…"

Elias heard every word. He turned his head slowly, fixing Roldan with a stare colder than winter earth.

"What was that?" he asked with a glacial tone. "Thought I heard something… from you."

Roldan went pale. He forced a crooked, uneasy smile and gave a stiff shake of his head.

"N-nothing, boss... er, I mean, Warden. Nothin' at all."

Without taking his eyes off the overseer, Elias held out his hand. After a tense pause, Roldan fumbled beneath the table, retrieved a worn leather pouch, and slid it across the surface with unsteady fingers.

Elias caught it, loosened the drawstring, and tipped the contents onto the table. He counted the coins one by one. Seventy-seven shillings. Exact.

The fool already had the exact amount in his pocket? Funny...

He gave a faint, humourless nod, then swept the money back into the pouch and tucked it away inside his coat.

Rising smoothly from the chair, Elias turned towards the gate. The groaning, mud-smeared heap of battered miners barely stirred as he passed. A crooked, malevolent smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

"Pleasure doing business, Barrett," he called over his shoulder. "Next time, send bigger bastards — at least ones who've had breakfast."

***

Elias sat at the rickety table in his flat, a brass pocket watch ticking softly beside a folded ledger. The thin light of noon slipped through the cracked windowpane. He counted out his coins in neat little piles, tallying them against the relentless cost of survival.

Seventy-seven shillings from the overseer's pouch. Another eighteen from his pay. That brought the total to ninety-five shillings — or, in the old count, one thousand one hundred and forty pence.

His gaze drifted to the battered rent notice nailed to the wall.

"Three months unpaid. Forty-two shillings outstanding, plus the current month, which brings it to fifty. I've already given you an allowance. Pay it now or be tossed onto the cobbles."

Well, that left him with fifty-three shillings to his name — a tight purse for what needed doing.

He scrawled a crude list onto a scrap of parchment — a new coat and decent clothes, dry rations, lamp oil, an iron weapon, and rent. It would be close, but manageable if his bargaining held up. The route was settled.

Sliding his trusty iron rod beneath his coat, Elias stepped out into the street.

He reached a cut by his left and followed the narrow artery of Heartmere Lane. Ramshackle homes pressed in on either side, grim-faced tenants peering out from behind cracked shutters. At the junction, he veered right onto Coppergate Row, where the city's Central Market sprawled in chaotic disarray. Stalls jostled for space. Ironmongers, tanners, and scabbard traders hawked their wares amidst the clamour of barking butchers and the sharp stink of fishmongers.

The weapon stalls were pitiful. Rusted knives, notched swords, and clubs fashioned from old chair legs lay in sorry piles. But one stall caught his eye — a rack of iron rods, thick as a man's thumb, hardened at the core and capped at both ends. It wasn't much, but far better than the "stick" he'd been carrying. Guns were too rare and expensive, reserved for nobles or sanctioned guards, so he doesn't bother asking.

Elias approached, keeping his features perfectly blank.

"How much for that one?" he asked, nodding to a solid iron rod roughly three feet in length and thick as a man's thumb. It looked dense enough to cave in a skull with a single good strike. The surface was pitted and blackened with age, but both ends had been hammered flat and hardened, giving it a grim, practical finish.

The hawker squinted at him. "Twelve shillings."

Elias let out a sharp snort. "For this? I could beat a man to death with a fencepost for nothing."

The man's face darkened. "Eight."

"Five."

They locked eyes. Elias held the stare, his head tilted slightly, wearing the look of a man judging whether a sheep was worth the slaughter.

"Six and a half," the hawker ventured.

"Five," Elias repeated with a flat tone. "Or I take my coin to any other fool flogging scrap iron. You are a wise man, I believe."

A long beat passed, then a reluctant nod. The hawker grunted his agreement.

Elias counted out five shillings (sixty pence), took up the rod, and gave it a slow turn in his hand. It was balanced, solid, the sort of thing that could split a man's skull cleanly with the right strike. Satisfied, he tucked it beneath his coat with the second one and moved on.

From there, he cut through Coppergate, weaving between stalls piled with dried meats and flanked by water sellers. Prices were cutthroat, the merchants haggling like cornered wolves, but Elias, sharp as broken glass, out-bargained them with ease. He secured a bag of dried beef for three shillings, a hard loaf for one and a half, and a small hip flask with a bottle of lamp oil for four. The sellers cursed beneath their breath but took his coin all the same.

By midday's bell, Elias was already making his way towards Eastvale, the city's quieter trade quarter. The air there was calmer, the streets lined with tailors, cobblers, and haberdashers. Less shouting, more business. He stepped into a modest clothier's shop — a cramped place thick with dust and the faint scent of pressed wool. Coats and linen shirts hung from rusted hooks, the shelves cluttered with bolts of rough-spun fabric.

The tailor, a narrow-faced man with ink-stained fingers, gave Elias a wary once-over, as if expecting him to nick something or bleed on the stock.

Elias ignored him, running a hand across a charcoal-grey coat hanging near the window. The fabric was coarse, thick enough to shrug off the city's damp and stitched with unadorned brass buttons. A plain linen shirt, clean and serviceable, hung beside it — nothing fine, but better than the threadbare rags on his back.

"Fourteen shillings," the tailor droned.

Elias nearly swore aloud. In his head, a sharp voice snapped:

Fourteen!? That's my bloody flat's rent for the month!

The sheer nerve of it made his teeth clench. For a coat and shirt, no less.

"Ten," he said, voice flat as slate.

"It's worth every—"

Elias cut him off with a scoff.

"Ten. Or I'll let the district know you lace your cuffs with copper thread instead of silver."

A long, sour pause followed. The man's jaw twitched, then he gave a reluctant nod.

Elias counted out ten shillings, took the clothes, and left without a word.

He flicked a half shilling to a passing meat seller and chewed as he walked. By the time he reached his district, he still had seventy-one shillings in hand — enough to cover the rent and keep a little reserve.

Elias skirted past a chipped wall plastered with faded posters—sketchy sketches of missing persons and crude hand-lettering. He spared them a passing glance, noting the ragged edges where someone had tried to peel them away.

A sombre voice drifted from a stall where two townsfolk huddled.

"Blood down by t'docks, they're sayin'," one muttered, shoulders hunched. "Officers went nosin', but weren't no beast nor man what done it. Not that clean."

Elias stored the snippet without comment.

It was probably a work of the supernatural, though the common folk here seemed oblivious to such matters. He didn't voice the thought; it was enough to let it settle alongside the rest.

He returned to his flat as the sun dipped past its zenith. Inside, he turned on the oil lamp, banishing half the gloom. He pulled a small loaf from his pack and gnawed at it methodically—stale, but filling.

The iron rod felt satisfying in hand as he gave it a few test swings. He laid out dried meats, lamp oil, spare rations and counted each item with clinical precision.

"I will be heading to Ashward Manse tomorrow with no delay." He spoke the vow aloud curtly.

The word "predictable" curled on his lips at the thought of Roldan Barrett's bluster — an internal smirk at the overseer's expense.

Dusk crept in. Beyond the window, a lone cart's wheels clattered on cobbles, and a distant shout dissolved into the hush. A light breeze stirred the drapes for a heartbeat before stilling again. Elias snuffed the lamp and eased onto his cot.

***

The Next Day.

"Good morning to me!" Elias drawled at dawn with sardonic humour. He pressed his palm against the cold glass of the windowpane and watched idle figures gather in the street below, some nursing mugs of tea, others lingering in small clusters.

Sunday, Sabbatarian law — Catholic doctrine's mandate of rest — had never held much sway here. Folks chose their own rhythms; no one paused at the ringing of bells or hymns from the churches. They don't seem to hold significant power over the people's daily lives in this mixed timeline... Elias noted that fact quietly, filing it away.

He turned back from the window with his shoulders squared.

"Well, well, well. The exploration of the Manse sets out today…" His voice carried a tone of grim practicality rather than excitement.