Chapter 29: Neighbor's Roof

Not even five minutes have passed and Arwyn was done eating that sensational meal. His legs were numb from that awkward position he sat on when he was cuffed, but he was still, barely, able to walk.

He still hasn't changed his own clothing. The leather jacket smelled like it'd been bathed in sun and rain for three weeks in a row, and his denim pants looked more khaki. Only now, he'd realize how dirty he was.

His Passion Energy hasn't fully replenished, but the food certainly helped with its recovery. Arwyn went up the stairs and back to the tavern. Although the tavern was still closed, it felt lighter, livelier than before. Lanterns were brighter than before, the faint smell of brewing coffee at the front, like a complete contrast to Flavin's demeanor.

"Take a bath, would you?" Flavin called him out from the counter.

Arwyn couldn't deny it. His clothes held the smell from when he and Nathaniel ran through the sewers, lost Nathaniel and went through that foggy street, and then entered and exited the damp keep. He was smelly.

Now that he'd noticed it, he went up the stairs that were normally restricted for customers and felt some sort of dried-up sweat sticking between his skin and his clothes.

Flavin had pointed him toward a bathroom on the second floor, and the sight of it didn't inspire confidence. There was a peeling plaster, a cracked mirror spiderwebbed across its surface, and a faucet that looked older than the building itself. 

He twisted the knob, and the pipes screeched in protest before spitting out a stream of icy water. Good enough. 

He stripped off his leather jacket, stiff with days of grime, and his denim pants, caked with mud and worse. The stench hit him again like a punch. Sewers, sweat, blood, and the sour tang of Runar's fog-soaked streets. He'd been hauling this filth around since his escape, and it was a miracle anyone could stand to be near him.

The cold water bit into his skin as he scrubbed, washing away the layers of dirt and dried sweat that had crusted over him. His arms ached, still sore from being cuffed, but the raw sting of cleanliness felt good, like he was scraping off more than just mud. 

When he stepped out, dripping and shivering, he caught his reflection in the fractured mirror. Pale, sharp-edged, with damp hair plastered to his forehead. Not exactly a hero, but at least he didn't look like a walking corpse anymore.

Flavin had left him a pile of clothes. Coarse trousers and a shirt that hung loose on his frame, probably the old man's spares. They scratched against his skin, but they were clean, and that was a luxury he hadn't known in days.

Flavin still was behind the counter, wiping it down with a rag that'd seen better days. Without a word, he slid a chipped mug of coffee across to Arwyn, who dropped onto a stool and took it gratefully. 

The first sip hit like a jolt, bitter and scalding, waking up his sluggish senses. He could feel his Passion Energy stirring, faint but growing, like an ember coaxed back to life. The stew he'd scarfed down earlier had started the process, and this coffee was pushing it further. 

So, it was time to test the waters.

"I've got some tricks," Arwyn said, keeping his tone light but deliberate. "Sketcher stuff. Not much right now, since I damn near drained… But it's coming back sooner than I thought."

Flavin just kept wiping. "I figured as much. Your aura's got that buzz. I've seen it on the news, but not actually with my eyes."

Arwyn nodded. There wasn't really any point in hiding it from a guy like Flavin. He'd probably sniffed out weirder secrets in this dump. "Good to know I'm not subtle. So, about Othello? You got any ideas? I'm not dumb enough to charge the execution stage with a rusty… katana and a death wish."

Flavin snorted, finally setting the rag down and pouring himself a cup. "Smart for once. Storming in gets you a bullet in the head before you're halfway there. Too many guards, too many guns."

"Exactly," Arwyn said, leaning forward. "I've been thinking… Maybe something quieter. Cleaner."

Flavin crossed his arms, eyeing him over the rim of his mug. "Like what? You're gonna sketch a cannon and blow the whole square to hell?"

Arwyn smirked. "Tempting, but no. What about range? Something long-distance. Bow, musket, whatever. Hit him before they even know I'm there."

The older man's eyes narrowed, a flicker of interest breaking through his usual gruffness. "Now you're talking. A musket's loud, though, since guards'd be on you fast. I've heard of stories regarding a weapon that could hit a target miles away. Quiet, precise. It'd be paired with binoculars, and you could drop Othello from a block away."

"A weapon… Wait."

A weapon that could hit a target from miles away, could be silenced, and is usually paired with binoculars. There was only one weapon that he could think of regarding that.

A sniper rifle.

The words lit a spark in Arwyn's mind. He'd never used one. Hell, he'd barely seen one, but with his Sketcher powers, he could make it work. Draw something simple: maybe a barrel, a trigger, a basic scope. Binoculars too, for accuracy. One shot, one kill, and he'd be gone before the chaos settled. 

"That's it," he muttered, the plan taking shape. "A clean hit from far off. No mess, no melee."

"There's a catch though," Flavin said, cutting through his enthusiasm. "You can't just perch on any old roof. Guards are crawling the streets and climbing up anywhere else. They'll spot you before you're set."

Arwyn frowned, the gears grinding to a halt. "So where do I shoot from? Your roof?"

"Definitely not. It's too low, and has a bad angle." Flavin jerked his thumb toward the wall. "Emman's place, next door. We've a corridor leading to his place at the third story, so you could have a clear shot straight to the square."

"Emman?" Arwyn raised an eyebrow.

"Grumpy bastard who lives there," Flavin said, rolling his eyes. "He hates me, hates noise, hates everything. Only thing he likes is exotic drinks. Fancy stuff he hasn't tasted a hundred times. My rotgut won't cut it anymore."

Arwyn leaned back, mind racing. Exotic drinks weren't exactly lying around in Runar. Wine was scarce, and anything fancier was a pipe dream. 

Then it hit him. 

Soda. 

Bubbly, sweet, something this backwater had probably never seen. If he could whip up a batch, it might just be weird enough to win Emman over. "Soda," he said, half to himself. "I could make soda."

Flavin stared at him like he'd lost it. "The hell's soda?"

"Fizzy water, sweet as hell. It's definitely exotic here, trust me. I just need some basics: vinegar, baking soda, honey, maybe fruit juice if you've got any."

He recalled some of his chemistry classes.

Flavin barked a laugh. "You're gonna bribe that old coot with bubbly water? You're crazier than I thought."

"Maybe," Arwyn shot back, already sketching the idea in his head—literally. He'd need a setup to carbonate it: a bottle, a tube, some vinegar and baking soda for the CO2. Mix in honey or whatever juice Flavin had stashed, and it'd be close enough to pass as a "rare delicacy." If Emman bought the act, he'd have his roof. If not, he'd be back to square one, and time was running thin.

He drained the last of his coffee, letting the plan solidify. Step one: make the soda. Step two: Charm… or at least bribe Emman into letting him up to the third floor. Step three: Sketch a sniper rifle and binoculars, crude but functional, and take the shot during the execution.

It was a gamble. one slip, one missed bullet, and he'd be dead or worse. But it was smarter than rushing the stage with no Passion Energy and a dull blade. The sniper would cost him around a thousand of his poules, but he didn't mind.

Flavin watched him stand, a faint smirk tugging at his weathered face. "Good luck, kid. Emman's a tough sell, and Othello's not exactly gonna stand still for you."

Arwyn grinned, sharp and reckless. "I'll make it work. Always do."