Ainmire raised his hand, spoon held tightly, stopping short of his mouth. He furrowed a brow as he looked down. The wood was wrong at the table he was sitting at—too warm, too dry. And he was just sitting. Existing in a place that felt removed from everything.
Then the smell hit him. Cabbage boiling somewhere. Unwashed bodies packed too close. Mildew in the walls. And beneath it all, something he couldn’t name but recognized. The particular stink of poverty masked as charity.
A bowl sat before him. Gray porridge. A single heel of bread that was hard as stone.
Sitting at his right, a young boy with eyes of pale glowing cerulean was studying the room around him.
(Bob)
What is this? This is wrong. We do not belong here.
“I know,” Ainmire replied quietly. His voice was familiar, from a life that no longer mattered. Higher, and much thinner. When he looked down at his hands, they were small, knuckles skinned raw.
The cerulean eyed boy was staring at him, trying to make some sort of expression of disdain but failing.
(Bob)
We have drifted. The meat-thing must wake. We do not like this form!
“Trying, Bob. Give me a—”
“Hey…is you gonna eat that?”
The voice came from his left. A boy, maybe ten, with hollow cheeks and eyes set as deep as his hunger. He wasn’t looking at Ainmire. He was looking at the bread.
Savvy check…
Savvy success.
You’ve seen the look on his face before. Heard that question a hundred times. Hunger that learned to speak for the person.
Ainmire looked at the bread, then at the boy. His eyes swept over the other children hunched over their bowls, eating fast. Guarding their portions with their forearms.
He slid the bread towards the boy.
The boy grabbed it and was gone before anyone noticed. Ainmire watched him go and felt nothing. Not generosity or sacrifice. Just the rightness of an empty stomach kept at bay for another night. It just wasn’t his own.
(Bob)
Failed survival instinct. The meat-thing burned too brightly.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Ainmire reached for his food. The table was gone.
He stood in a narrow hallway. Stone walls and damp floors. The sound of children’s voices echoing from somewhere distant. Moving closer, the heavy treads of older boys. Three of them rounded the corner. Fourteen, maybe fifteen years of age. Large for their age. The kind of big that came from stealing the food of smaller children for years.
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The leader had a nose that had been broken and never set right. He smiled when he saw Ainmire.
“Well, well. Look who’s all alone!”
Ainmire looked down at himself again. Still small. But something else now—a tension in his shoulders. The feeling of standing between something and someone.
Behind him, pressed against the wall, a smaller child. A girl. He hadn’t noticed her until now, but she was there, trembling, clutching a scrap of cloth like a doll.
Protector Instinct: Childhood Edition
Some things refuse to die.
“Let her pass,” Ainmire said. His voice didn’t shake. It never shook.
Broken Nose laughed. “Or what? You’ll run to the matrons? Piss your britches and cry?” He stepped closer, his friends fanning out. “We just wanna play a game with her.”
“Let her pass.”
The same words. Calm. The kind of calm that came before a storm.
Incoming attack: Unarmed strike
Damage: 2 (Disadvantage, flanked)
Final Damage: 2
Your HP: 18/20
Broken Nose swung. Ainmire let the fist connect with his jaw. It was a test—he always tested the first hit. See if they had weight behind it. See if they’d commit. This one had commitment.
Incoming attack: Unarmed strike
Damage: 2 (Disadvantage, flanked)
Final Damage: 2
Your HP: 16/20
Broken Nose swung again, connecting to Ainmire’s stomach.
(Bob)
What is this pattern? Why do you allow this?
A giant grin crawled across Ainmire's face. "Thank you."
You used an unarmed attack!
Damage: 12 (Critical hit)
Final Damage: 12
Broken Nose’s HP 0/12
Ainmire’s hand shot out. He caught the boy’s wrist as he tried to swing again, squeezed until the bones ground together, and pulled. The boy stumbled forward, and Ainmire’s other hand found the back of his head, landing with a hard crack.
Broken Nose’s face met the floor. The other two boys stared.
Ainmire crouched down, voice soft. “Mess with the kids again, I'll take that nose of yours.”
He stood back up. The boys had already run. The girl tugged on his hand. He looked down at her but she didn't say anything. Her eyes were all he needed to see.
(Bob)
Foolish and fractured child. Violence and strife were the only things you had to consume. The only times you felt anything at all.
Before Ainmire could protest, the orphanage melted away. He opened his eyes to the familiar ship and drip of the bilge.
The hold again. The cold pulsed in his chest.
(Bob)
The meat-thing has returned. Memory kept sharp as a weapon.
“That wasn’t a dream.”
(Bob)
Only the living dream. You are only allowed to witness.
Ainmire sat up. His joints were as smooth as ever. The frozen men—Jimmy, Pook, Lou—knelt where he’d left them, waiting and watching. Their eyes were now a pale shade of blue.
“How long was I out?”
(Bob)
Too long. The ship stirs when dawn approaches. Someone waits for you. The woman.
“Greer?”
(Bob)
She stood at the hatch. Left. Returned. She wishes to speak. But she hasn’t the words.
Ainmire stood and stretched, the action meaning nothing to dead muscle. “Then let’s not keep her waiting, eh?”
(Bob)
Seeking more conflict?
“Right now I am seeking some breakfast.” He patted his rotund stomach. “Old habits never die.”
