Dungeon Runner
The Tiger Writes
sciencefiction
sciencefiction
31K5
Tibs survived by picking pockets; until he's caught.
Instead of losing a hand, he's sent away and told he must now survive a dungeon.
How is a kid who knew nothing more than his ...Stepping Up, Chapter 18
Tibs stared at the woman seated at his table, feet on it, playing with something he couldn't see from where he stood. Her boots were what caught his attention: thick leather, scuffed and scratched, but with bands of dark metal attached to them with newer leather strips. The metal was dented in places, as well as scuffed. A set of gloves on the table had a similar arrangement, with the metal on top of the gloves, knuckles, and fingers.
The table wasn't really his, or his team's. No one could claim any of the tables at the inn, technically —why did he keep using that word?— not even Jackal, being a server's special man, could make that happen. So this woman was in her right to sit there since the table had been unoccupied, but the Runners had an understanding.
You didn't sit at another team's table.
She looked up at him, went back to looking at what she held, then paused, looking up again. "You Light Fingers?"
Her hair was black, short, and straight, and her eyes were dark brown. Tibs sensed for what element she had, expecting her essence to have a tint matching her eyes, but she only had the wisp of someone without an element.
"It's Tibs," he answered, the nickname adding to the annoyance of her being at his table.
She dropped her boots to the floor, and they landed with a thud that resonated with their weight. She had the same old and worn leather covering her chest and shoulder, along with the metal bands strapped to it. Her arms were bare, lightly tanned, and muscular, except for bracers that also had metal attached to them.
She offered her hand to him, moving her arm as if she didn't feel the weight of the metal on the bracers. "I'm Cross."
He looked at the hand, thick, callused, with scarred knuckles. "Okay."
She pulled the hand back and leaned in the chair, then lobbed the object in her other hand. "Got something for you."
He caught it—a wooden cylinder the diameter of his fist and twice the length. "Why do you think I'm who you're looking for?" He turned it over in his hand. The side was covered in a series of small wooden squares that had some play to them.
"A few things," she answered with a shrug. "I'm told that Light Fingers is the youngest of the Runners, and you look kind of young. He also has normal eyes, even if he has an element."
"How do you know I have an element?" he demanded.
"But," she continued, ignoring his question, "mainly because you stood there glaring at me like I was sitting at your very own, private, table, and that friendly server told me this was the table Light Fingers' team sat at."
"Kroseph told you my name is Light Fingers?" Tibs asked, suspicious.
She searched the room. "Is that him?"
She pointed to a man on the heavier side with red wavy hair. Laurence, one of Kroseph's brothers. He shook his head.
"That's who told me." She nodded to the cylinder. "What do you think?"
He thought he needed to have a talk with all of Kroseph's brothers, but he focused on the object he held. Each square was the size of the nail on his thumb. There were one and six rows of them, and the same number in length. They seemed like they could move length-wise or along the circumference, if they were properly aligned, but he couldn't move them.
He sat.
Only two possible directions, but no actual motion. What was blocking it? He searched for one of the squares that could be pried off, gently pulling at each. Cross watched him carefully, but didn't seem ready to stop him.