Tylum's lungs burn for air. The air that he does manage to draw in burns almost as much as the deprivation--the noxious fumes that fill the sewer have long since ceased to double him over with gagging, but they're hardly the clean breath his body screams for. Each splash of his pounding footsteps echoes terrifyingly loudly in the grimy gloom. He would pick the wettest of tunnels...
The young man cuts off that line of thinking instantly. No use kicking himself for a wrong turn. Just get out of this passage...ah, there. He darts up a thankfully dry side tunnel, a little less than half as wide as the one he was in. It slopes up slightly. A drain? From where? No matter; it's obviously out of use. The noise that had grown distant from his fleetness of foot begins to intensify. They're coming. Tylum sets his jaw. Scurrying along the confining passageway, he moves swiftly but with an eye to the curving walls until he finds an alcove. "Alcove," perhaps, is too generous a term--"niche" might be more accurate. It'll have to do; they're almost to his tunnel. Flattening himself against the slick stone, he crams his body into the recess of the wall, freezing, nearly holding his breath, and even narrowing his eyes to slits. He's finally found his niche. Tylum smiles internally at the terrible pun but doesn't move a muscle to reflect that mute amusement visibly.
Heavy footsteps slow to a cautious pace a few yards away.
Months after his return to Highpass, Tylum has found himself back in the underbelly of Freeport. He had thought his work there was complete, but after Lucan's visit to Stanos, he'd been sent back in. They'd given him bare bones of information as to why, but his own thoughts pointed to another, tangential reason. Either way, the "why" of it all wasn't half as important as living to get out again.
He'd been underground, both figuratively and literally speaking, for weeks, but this time in a different capacity. No longer secretly working for Stanos's interests among the slavers, Tylum had embarked on the most chancy and dangerous missions of his short career as a Highpass agent...and again, he had somehow come out of it alive. He thinks. Perhaps. Time will tell; he won't bet on anything right now.
The recent days feel dreamlike to him--nightmarish, and yet... Again, he slams mental doors on the recollections of hidden cells, old blood, ambushes, Teir'dal eyes, human voices, and mad rushes through the darkness and torchlight. Whatever had happened back there...way back there...days, minutes, years ago...what he thought he remembered happening...couldn't have. It doesn't matter. It doesn't. What matters is now.
And now is when he can't afford to breathe. Footsteps splash uncertainly around the narrow tunnel's mouth. Tylum forbids the gasps of air he wants to take but allows--makes--himself to draw in and exhale faintly--softly enough that a feather would be undisturbed, but at least it's some air, and it won't make him risk that sudden, choking gasp that holding his breath would eventually force through. There's no moving now. He just has to wait. Tylum closes his eyes. That tiny weight in the safe bag around his neck. That's what he has to get out for. That's why he can't breathe. In spite of the fear and the dark, Tylum's lips curve in a slight smile.
The footsteps move off down the tunnel, receding into the stinking drip and flow of the Freeport sewers.
Minutes elapse before Tylum feels safe enough to draw a full breath. He wastes no time in congratulating himself on his successful dodge. Instead, he creeps to the tunnel's entrance to look and listen for his pursuers. Nothing. There was an exit a short way back, too dangerous to attempt while being pursued, but now Tylum moves toward it. He wants to bolt, to race for it, but he restrains himself to a quick but careful pace. It seems to take ages to get to it, but arrive he does, and with no excess noise or reckless visibility. When he reaches the metal ladder, he shimmies up like a spider up a pipe, peering out of the hole into the alley. Empty.
A quick scan of the area brings a brief smile to his face with a surge of relief. His luck is finally turning; he's come out closer than he thought he was to one of the hidden exits of the city near the harbor. Keeping his gaze down and his pace brisk but unhurried, he makes for it. A few minutes later, he ducks through the old "unused and locked" gate, and suddenly, he's out. Immediately, he begins to put as much distance between himself and the metropolis as he can. He has no idea if Stanos and the agency believes him alive or dead...he has no idea if he wants them to believe he's alive or dead. He knows that what he does want right now is to be far to the west.
He'll make it happen. If the organization is looking for him, well, they'll probably find him eventually. Or he'll have to go back. But one way or another, he's taking some leave. They owe him that, at least, all things considered. Unless, of course, his actions of the past week have nullified...
Tylum shakes his head sharply and walks on. The scrubland around the city gives way to Ro's sands, and soon he is headed south and west, taking the long way around to the Karanas and the Sigils' Sanctum.
The young man cuts off that line of thinking instantly. No use kicking himself for a wrong turn. Just get out of this passage...ah, there. He darts up a thankfully dry side tunnel, a little less than half as wide as the one he was in. It slopes up slightly. A drain? From where? No matter; it's obviously out of use. The noise that had grown distant from his fleetness of foot begins to intensify. They're coming. Tylum sets his jaw. Scurrying along the confining passageway, he moves swiftly but with an eye to the curving walls until he finds an alcove. "Alcove," perhaps, is too generous a term--"niche" might be more accurate. It'll have to do; they're almost to his tunnel. Flattening himself against the slick stone, he crams his body into the recess of the wall, freezing, nearly holding his breath, and even narrowing his eyes to slits. He's finally found his niche. Tylum smiles internally at the terrible pun but doesn't move a muscle to reflect that mute amusement visibly.
Heavy footsteps slow to a cautious pace a few yards away.
Months after his return to Highpass, Tylum has found himself back in the underbelly of Freeport. He had thought his work there was complete, but after Lucan's visit to Stanos, he'd been sent back in. They'd given him bare bones of information as to why, but his own thoughts pointed to another, tangential reason. Either way, the "why" of it all wasn't half as important as living to get out again.
He'd been underground, both figuratively and literally speaking, for weeks, but this time in a different capacity. No longer secretly working for Stanos's interests among the slavers, Tylum had embarked on the most chancy and dangerous missions of his short career as a Highpass agent...and again, he had somehow come out of it alive. He thinks. Perhaps. Time will tell; he won't bet on anything right now.
The recent days feel dreamlike to him--nightmarish, and yet... Again, he slams mental doors on the recollections of hidden cells, old blood, ambushes, Teir'dal eyes, human voices, and mad rushes through the darkness and torchlight. Whatever had happened back there...way back there...days, minutes, years ago...what he thought he remembered happening...couldn't have. It doesn't matter. It doesn't. What matters is now.
And now is when he can't afford to breathe. Footsteps splash uncertainly around the narrow tunnel's mouth. Tylum forbids the gasps of air he wants to take but allows--makes--himself to draw in and exhale faintly--softly enough that a feather would be undisturbed, but at least it's some air, and it won't make him risk that sudden, choking gasp that holding his breath would eventually force through. There's no moving now. He just has to wait. Tylum closes his eyes. That tiny weight in the safe bag around his neck. That's what he has to get out for. That's why he can't breathe. In spite of the fear and the dark, Tylum's lips curve in a slight smile.
The footsteps move off down the tunnel, receding into the stinking drip and flow of the Freeport sewers.
Minutes elapse before Tylum feels safe enough to draw a full breath. He wastes no time in congratulating himself on his successful dodge. Instead, he creeps to the tunnel's entrance to look and listen for his pursuers. Nothing. There was an exit a short way back, too dangerous to attempt while being pursued, but now Tylum moves toward it. He wants to bolt, to race for it, but he restrains himself to a quick but careful pace. It seems to take ages to get to it, but arrive he does, and with no excess noise or reckless visibility. When he reaches the metal ladder, he shimmies up like a spider up a pipe, peering out of the hole into the alley. Empty.
A quick scan of the area brings a brief smile to his face with a surge of relief. His luck is finally turning; he's come out closer than he thought he was to one of the hidden exits of the city near the harbor. Keeping his gaze down and his pace brisk but unhurried, he makes for it. A few minutes later, he ducks through the old "unused and locked" gate, and suddenly, he's out. Immediately, he begins to put as much distance between himself and the metropolis as he can. He has no idea if Stanos and the agency believes him alive or dead...he has no idea if he wants them to believe he's alive or dead. He knows that what he does want right now is to be far to the west.
He'll make it happen. If the organization is looking for him, well, they'll probably find him eventually. Or he'll have to go back. But one way or another, he's taking some leave. They owe him that, at least, all things considered. Unless, of course, his actions of the past week have nullified...
Tylum shakes his head sharply and walks on. The scrubland around the city gives way to Ro's sands, and soon he is headed south and west, taking the long way around to the Karanas and the Sigils' Sanctum.
