The temptation to linger in the house awhile was strong— Mike had fond memories of the place and would have been loathe to leave it, but Hastur couldn’t allow it. Who knew when some of the count’s goons would be along to check on the place, after all. He needed to grab whatever necessities he could carry and leave as quickly as he could.

He found one of his old rucksacks in the closet and started packing— clothes, food, what money Mike had stashed around the place, and a few other things that seemed like they might be useful.

The most important thing, however, lay at the bottom of the trunk at the foot of Mike’s bed and the moment Hastur lay his hand on it he finally felt able to relax a little. He pulled the long, slightly-curved bundle of tightly wound fabric from beneath a pile of heavy winter clothing and hastily unwrapped it, heart pounding in anticipation until, at last, the sword within was revealed.

“There you are,” Hastur said aloud with a soft smile like a man greeting an old friend. He took his saber by its grip and drew it with a flourish so the silver blade caught the light spilling in through the window from outside.

It was a beautiful sword of obvious quality to even the inexperienced eye, though only some would recognize the strange, opalescent blue material that ran along the spine of the saber’s blade in a narrow stripe.

Mithril. While imperfect human forging techniques made it too brittle to hold a proper edge, the incredibly rare metal was capable of interrupting magic, which made it an invaluable tool for members of the Red Guard. The stuff was so valuable that weapons using it weren’t standard issue but this blade in particular had been a gift from Hastur’s father— the last he’d ever received from him after he’d failed to manifest the magic that was his birthright.

Mike could have earned himself a small fortune selling it after he fled the guard, but memories of Hastur’s love of the thing must have stayed his hand, for which he would be eternally grateful.

The saber was as much a part of Hastur as his own arm and to finally feel it in his hand once more steadied his jangling nerves in a way little else could.

A fierce grin overtook Hastur’s face and he sheathed the blade. “Alright, now we’re ready to go.”

~~~

Hastur left the same way he arrived and made sure to return the fallen pane of glass to its place to cover his means of coming and going. No doubt the count’s men would soon descend on the place and pillage it for some signs of where he’d gone but they would find precious little. He had left behind almost everything Mike had ever owned, though in honor of his memory, Hastur had elected to take a few of his favorite books along with him. It was sentimental of him but it felt right— Mike had kept his sword out of respect for the man whose life he had taken over; it was only fair for Hastur to do the same in turn.

Guy really did love his books, though. Like he didn’t get enough of them at work… Hastur mused to himself as he slipped out the back and onto the street once more, rucksack slung across one shoulder and his sword back on his hip where it belonged. He’d never been a big reader but after taking on Mike’s memories twice now he’d found himself in possession of a great deal of knowledge on books he’d never even read. It was a strange feeling— like someone had opened up his skull and dumped in the full contents of a library over night, but Hastur was practical enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’d lived enough life to know that even his considerable brawn couldn’t win out in every situation and sometimes one key piece of information was all it would take to turn the tables in his favor.

It was a long walk down to Ashtown, and even longer when Hastur elected to take a circuitous route to get there. In exchange, though, it allowed the man to re-familiarize himself with his hometown and gave him ample opportunity to throw off anyone that might be tailing him.

While Ashtown stretched further into the surrounding hills than it had when last Hastur had been in Vorslav it still began at more-or-less the same point. Ashtown had always been the poorest district in Fane’s capital, once separated from it by a wall of earth and stone that had stood for almost two centuries. Time and the growth of the town into a proper city had brought the populace up to the very wall, and then spilled over it until it became functionally useless and was gradually picked apart for building materials in homes and other structures nearby. In some places it had been demolished entirely, but along the city’s west side the wall’s foundation still stood as a line in the sand between the city and its very poorest citizens.

Various roads cut through the gaps and Hastur passed unobserved, as close as he could tell.

The anonymity of the crowds and narrow, rambling streets brought Hastur relief in some ways, though he didn’t allow himself to relax. Just because he was certain he’d managed to shake any tail Count Tsarkaya had put on him didn’t mean other, equally unfriendly, eyes weren’t still watching him.

Hastur hadn’t spent much time in Ashtown before he’d transmigrated but he’d spent plenty of time in neighborhoods just like this one when he’d wound up a mobster after coming back from the great war to find jobs scarce and money even more so in Mike’s world. Hastur wasn’t sure what it said about him that he’d not only landed on his feet in the crime filled underworld of Detroit after the passage of the Volstead Act, he’d thrived, but he knew it meant he could carry on just fine back here in his home world— career in the Red Guard or no.

First, though, he’d need a place to stay.

A flophouse was always an option if all he wanted was a roof to sleep under, but they offered little in the way of privacy. More often than not they were a series of large rooms with rows of bed for the letting but they were a good place to get robbed and often came with the threat of bed bugs.

No, it might cost more, but Hastur would definitely sleep better if he could find an inn.

There were plenty to be had this close to the docks, at least, though none were as good as even the worst of the inns on the other side of the wall. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, so after a little wandering around Hastur settled on one that was recommended to him by a street urchin as having ‘sturdy doors and decent pints’.

The Red Bird Inn was a squat, sturdy sort of building built of old, weathered wood and rough-cut stone that looked like it’d been standing there since before the wall was built— calcified into a single piece like driftwood cast up on the shore. True to its name the inn’s trim was decorated with faded red birds, the most prominent of which was carved into the heavy front door which gave way with a loud creak under Hastur’s hand when he pushed it open and stepped inside.

Like most inns, the front room was a barroom lit by some scattered oil lamps and a large fireplace to one side. There wasn’t much of a crowd but it was early as yet so Hastur didn’t have any trouble reaching the bar and the woman tending it with a wary eye and a tired air.

“I’ll take a room, a pint, and whatever you’ve got on the fire thats edible,” Hastur said when he settled onto a stool and kicked his rucksack under the bar where no wondering hands might slip into it without his noticing.

The woman looked to be around fifty, though given how hard life could be in Ashtown there was always the chance she was younger. Her ash-blond hair was graying at the temples and her weathered features spoke of an unyielding temperament that gave her the confidence to give even a man as large as Hastur the up and down without seeming the least bit troubled.

“How long are you staying?” she asked, voice pleasantly husky and soft, not at all what one might expect looking at her.

Hastur considered, then replied, “Three days to start, possibly longer.” Mike had a decent nest egg built up for himself but the vast majority of it was in the bank and Hastur didn’t trust that it wasn’t being watched. He had enough cash to get himself by for a little while, but he’d need to find some way to make money sooner rather than later.

The innkeeper nodded then named a price which Hastur paid and watched as she swept the coins off the counter and into her apron pocket with a swift motion that barely gave them time to settle before they disappeared. She turned and produced a room key for him then disappeared back into the kitchen. She reappeared a moment later with a bowl of something that resembled stew then pulled a pint from the nearest barrel and placed the lot on the bar before Hastur with a solid thump.

“Thanks,” he said, but the innkeeper was already off to tend to another patron and didn’t spare him a second glance.