Six years. Six long, and in some ways, short years had passed since I was graciously deposited in this architecturally questionable slice of hell that the locals insisted on calling Raven's Gate Orphanage. The persistent reek of mould, which initially assaulted my nostrils with the subtlety of a sledgehammer blow, was now so familiar I no longer even registered it as unpleasant. It was merely another element in the olfactory symphony of decay that permeated this place, like an ambient soundtrack to everyday misery.
I observed, with a detachment bordering on anthropological study, Emily, one of my companions in misfortune, scrubbing the floor with desperate fervour whilst Mrs Blackwood, our resident tormentor and self-proclaimed expert on 'problem children' and 'divine order', launched into another of her impassioned speeches. The sound of the slap, sharp and cruel, echoed down the cold corridor before I could even process a blink. My ears twitched involuntarily – not from surprise, for violence here was as predictable as sunrise, but from a purely physical instinct to protect the sensitive hearing inherited by this half-beast body.
"Freak! You there, with those ridiculous ears! Don't just stand there like a useless statue!" the supervisor's harsh voice, which sounded like gravel being crushed, cut through the air towards me.
I continued sweeping my designated corner in silence, each movement calculated and efficient. The orphanage's faded grey uniform, a garment that seemed designed by someone with a particular hatred for children and good taste, itched against my skin. It was, as always, two sizes too large – they never bothered to provide us with clothes that fitted properly. Not that I particularly cared, frankly. After having faced Malenia, Blade of Miquella, stark naked in the Lands Between, a baggy, malodorous uniform was the least of my fashion concerns.
[You'll never get over that 'I fought a terrifyingly powerful demigod naked and almost died spectacularly' phase, will you? It's like your interdimensional calling card.]
(Some experiences are transformative, Eos,) I thought, feeling the corner of my lips curve slightly. (Besides, it serves as an excellent benchmark for 'uncomfortable situations'.)
The refectory, or as I liked to call it, the arena of nutritional despair, was always an interesting sociological spectacle. Today, the menu blessed us with watery gruel – again. A delicacy that managed to be both tasteless and vaguely suspect at the same time. The subtle scent of rancid food hung in the air, making my six-year-old stomach churn a little, but I'd experienced worse. Much, much worse. I recalled a certain fermented delicacy on a desert planet that still gave me shivers. The other children huddled in their usual tribal cliques, casting furtive glances and poorly disguised whispers in my direction.
"Oi, freak-girl! How's the tail today? Still wagging like you're proper folk?" The voice belonged to Thomas, a stocky lad with more muscle than neurons, the self-proclaimed alpha of our dormitory.
I rolled my eyes internally, a manoeuvre I'd perfected over millennia. After having been a Stark in Westeros and survived the intricate and deadly politics of the Seven Kingdoms, these petty tyrants-in-training were almost… adorable in their rudimentary attempts at intimidation. It was like watching wolf pups trying to take down an ancient dragon.
[Must I remind you that you are, technically, six years of age on this plane of existence? Perhaps a modicum of standard species-specific social interaction wouldn't go amiss. Or, at the very least, less cold, calculated analysis of your orphanage-mates.]
(Chronologically, perhaps, Eos. But you know as well as I do that age is just a number, a rather flexible social construct, when you've already lived multiple eternities and seen civilisations rise and fall before breakfast.)
Mrs Graves, another prominent figure in our little hierarchy of suffering, had assigned me to clean the latrines today – again. The stench was an offence to the senses, a pungent combination that would defy the description of a poet of the macabre. But honestly, after having crawled through the fetid sewers of Yharnam, hunting crazed beasts and indescribable things that lurked in the darkness, this was practically a relaxing day in the park. With slightly less risk of being eaten alive.
At night, when the precarious silence of exhaustion finally settled over the communal dormitory, I sat near the broken window, which offered a panoramic view of nothing in particular, save for more misery. From here I could see the chimneys of Raven's End's countless factories, spewing their black, oily smoke against the night sky, creating a sinister halo over the city. The air here always tasted of pollution and a subtle tang of human desperation.
[Six years and you still haven't attempted to… proactively optimise your existential situation? A small demonstration of your innate abilities could, shall we say, 'reorganise' the power structure of this establishment.]
(Patience, Eos. Patience. Each life has its own rhythm, its own lessons to be learnt in their rawest form. Besides…) I flexed my small fingers, feeling the primordial power, the ancient magic that coursed through my veins like a dormant river, (I'm still accustoming myself to the peculiarities and limitations of this new body. And you know how I like to… appreciate every moment, every texture of existence. Even the most unpleasant ones.)
A muffled cry, quickly silenced, echoed from somewhere in the depths of the orphanage – probably another child being "disciplined" by Mr Thorne, the burly caretaker with fists as heavy as mallets and morals as light as a feather in the wind.
(You know what's truly ironic, Eos, in a way that only the experience of multiple lives can provide?) my mind wandered, observing the dark dance of shadows in the corridors. (In all my lives, in all the bizarre and wondrous worlds I've visited, the true monsters, those who cause the deepest, most enduring suffering, are rarely the ones with sharp fangs and menacing claws.)
[Philosophising again on a rumbling stomach? You're becoming surprisingly nostalgic for someone who insists on living in the present. Or perhaps it's just the hunger talking.]
(Not nostalgic, my dear system. Merely… contemplative. After all, it's not every day one gets the chance to experience humanity in its purest, rawest form, stripped of any veneer of civility. It's a fascinating study, albeit frequently stomach-churning.)
The moon, an indifferent silver sliver in the polluted sky, continued its slow, inexorable journey, whilst shadows danced and writhed down the cold orphanage corridors. Somewhere out there, in the bowels of this diseased city, Raven's End continued its macabre dance of survival and exploitation. The distant thrum of machinery, a constant, industrial pulse, never ceased, much like the occasional screams and drunken laughter that echoed from the darkened streets.
[And what's the grand plan for now, O great interdimensional strategist? Besides collecting childhood traumas as if they were rare stamps, of course.]
(For now? Observe. Learn. Adapt. This world has its own rules, its own peculiar magic pulsing beneath the surface. And something tells me, an intuition sharpened by countless beginnings and ends, that Raven's End harbours secrets far darker and more complex than a simple, decrepit orphanage and its predictably cruel inhabitants.)
[You really must stop being so… dramatically enigmatic. It's like you're narrating the prologue to a grimdark epic all the time. Try an 'I'm going to snaffle an extra bread roll at breakfast' occasionally.]
(Says the cosmic artificial intelligence entity that chose to manifest as a cynical, delightfully sarcastic operating system permanently installed in my head.)
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The smoke from the industrial chimneys formed a perpetual, suffocating canopy over Raven's End, turning even the theoretically brightest days into an eternal, melancholy twilight. I walked the narrow, labyrinthine streets, my bare feet already calloused and painfully accustomed to the uneven pavement, the treacherous shards of glass, and the ubiquitous rubbish. The faded, ill-fitting orphanage uniform instantly marked me as one of the "children for hire" – cheap, disposable labour for any citizen of Raven's End willing to pay a few meagre jewels to the venerable institution that housed me.
[I still find the variety of euphemisms societies develop for exploitation fascinating. 'Social integration programme'. Truly, a masterpiece of language. Ah, look there – I've just updated the map for this specific area. The industrial district, with its cacophony of machines, connects directly to the main port. The acrid smell of salt and rotting fish now blends harmoniously with the factory smoke. A veritable sensory delight.]
(Child exploitation has so many pretty, creative names across the worlds, doesn't it, Eos? It's almost an art form. And your obsession with mapping every square inch of this city, every fetid alley and every rotten rooftop, sometimes amuses me. But I admit, against my will, that it has been incredibly useful. Especially considering how frequently merchant ships from all over the Kingdom of Fiore use this godforsaken hole called Raven's End as a convenient, unofficial stopping point.)
Today, the benevolent Mrs Blackwood, in her infinite wisdom and compassion, had assigned me to the weavers' district. The air here was thick, almost palpable, with cotton and wool fibres that floated like a grey blizzard, making my six-year-old lungs silently protest with each breath. But honestly, after having breathed the toxic, corrosive mists of Blighttown for weeks on end, this was almost like a day in the countryside. With a bit more coughing.
[You really need to recalibrate your standards for 'refreshing' and 'day in the countryside'. And it's interesting to note how this textile production area connects directly with the numerous port warehouses via a network of unofficially mapped alleyways. The local merchants must use these clandestine routes to avoid Magic Council tariffs and inspections. Typical.]
(And smugglers too, Eos. Don't be naive. I've already catalogued at least three distinct and apparently rival groups using the abandoned depots near the north quay for their nocturnal transactions. The flow of illegal goods and sensitive information in Fiore is significantly greater than official Council reports would have us believe.)
At every grimy corner, down every dark alley, a new human story unfolded, a microcosm of the struggle for survival. Street vendors hawked their prices with the energy of desperation, child beggars, some younger than I, rehearsed their best, most heart-wrenching expressions of misery to coax a few coins from passers-by, and the pickpockets – many of them my orphanage 'colleagues,' learning the trade from an early age – danced their silent, nimble choreography amidst the hurrying crowds.
"Oi, wolf-girl!" Old Jackson, the limping blacksmith from Anvil Street, called to me from his dark, smoky workshop. "Need someone small and nimble to clean out the forge chimneys. Fifty jewels for the orphanage, twenty for you – if you don't breathe a word to a soul about the extra payment."
[At least he pays considerably better than the button factory, where you nearly lost a finger last week. And his workshop is situated at a geographically strategic point, between the port and the main industrial zone. From there, with a little effort, one can observe all the large vessels entering and leaving the bay. Valuable information.]
(Precisely why I took the extra work, my dear Eos. The view from up there is… surprisingly educational. And infinitely better than cleaning the orphanage latrines for the umpteenth time.) The heat from the forge was intense, almost suffocating, but after having walked through the rivers of molten lava in Izalith, feeling flesh sear and bones creak…
[Yes, yes, we know – nothing compares to your other spectacularly traumatic lives. Your benchmark for 'hot' is an active volcano. Speaking of Izalith, the geographical coordinates of that cursed place on that reality's world map are surprisingly similar to Raven's End's current location on the Fiore continent. Both are notorious convergence points for strange energies and… dimensional instability.]
(Patterns tend to repeat themselves across the folds of the multiverse, Eos. Like distorted echoes in an infinite corridor. You'd be surprised by the architectural and socio-cultural similarities I've already found between this port city and other forgotten metropolises from my past lives. Human stupidity, for instance, is remarkably consistent.)
The hours passed slowly as I worked, soot accumulating on my skin and clothes. From the tall forge chimney, I had a privileged, almost godlike view of Raven's End. The city spread out below me like a chaotic mosaic of uneven rooftops, winding alleys, and claustrophobic lanes. To the north, the opulent mansions of industrial barons and wealthy merchants gleamed with their stained-glass windows, like fake jewels in a crown of mud. To the south, the port stretched out like the tentacles of a kraken, with its countless decrepit warehouses and bustling docks, whilst squalid tenements huddled together, like fungi growing on a rotten log.
[You're mentally mapping every alley, every rooftop, every possible escape route. Soon we'll have a complete three-dimensional overview of this city's port infrastructure and subterranean passages. It's impressive how a relatively young city in the context of the Kingdom of Fiore has already developed such a complex, clandestine network of maritime trade and illicit activities.]
(Knowledge is power, Eos. And in this small, vulnerable body, I need every advantage I can get. Every secret entrance, every discreet exit, every forgotten hiding place. One never knows when we might need a swift and efficient escape route. The sea, as always, offers many tempting possibilities.)
Late in the afternoon, I made a few deliveries for Madam Rosemary, the old florist from Market Square. Her secret garden, hidden at the back of her small, cluttered shop, was the only place in all of Raven's End where I saw truly vibrant colours and perfumes that didn't reek of rot or desperation. She paid me with a generous piece of fresh bread, still warm, and a gentle smile that asked for nothing in return, a rarity in this place.
[She reminds me of that forgotten priestess in the ruined temple of… never mind. Her garden has a prime view of the sea, does it not? The exotic seeds for her unusual flowers arrive on merchant ships from all parts of Fiore and beyond. A possible source of information, or just pretty flowers.]
(No, Eos. She's different. Genuinely kind, with no ulterior motives. Sometimes, my digital friend, a florist is just a florist. And sometimes, just sometimes, you can be surprisingly poetic in your purely technical observations.)
The sun, a diffuse, orange fireball through the curtain of pollution, was setting as I finally returned to the orphanage, my small hands grimy with soot and my pockets a little heavier with a few hard-earned coins. Shadows lengthened down the narrow streets like hungry fingers, and the gas lamps began to be lit, creating pools of yellow, flickering light in Raven's End's eternal twilight, as the last cargo ships of the day anchored lazily in the harbour.
[It was a productive day, I'll admit. With each passing day, we discover more about the inner workings of this port city. I've now catalogued 47 primary and secondary escape routes, and 23 potential safe havens. For a port so busy and strategically important to Fiore's trade, official security is surprisingly, and conveniently, lax.]
(Yes. And each day brings me closer to understanding this place. Its deepest secrets. Its densest shadows.) A cloaked figure, moving with suspicious agility, slipped into a dark alley near the south quay warehouses. (And its myriad lies and hypocrisies. And every piece of information, every seemingly insignificant detail, is an advantage. Every piece of knowledge acquired could be the crucial difference between surviving… or becoming just another forgotten statistic in this city.)
[You really can't just be normal, can you? Appreciate a sunset without analysing its tactical implications and potential threats? Sometimes I think you enjoy being miserable.]
(Normal is a relative and overrated concept, Eos. And it very much depends on the world I reincarnate into. In some, being 'normal' is being a sheep awaiting slaughter. Here, in Raven's End, being 'normal' is probably a synonym for 'victim'. And I've been a victim far too many times for my liking.)