Swinebroth left the bustling hall and descended into the depths several floors down where, in the belly of the edifice, lay the modest bunker he shared with Horsey. Small and dimly lit, the room barely accommodated their sparse belongings. Even if he wandered in the dark in search of it, he would know he entered the right room once the scent of dying herbs greeted him, their sprigs hanging neatly along the low ceiling. Horsey's tools of power, as essential to him as the air he breathed.
Kneeling, he slid the worn shovel beneath the bed—Horsey's bed, the only one with any cushioning to speak of. His gaze drifted across the scattered curios lining the floor: pots, jars, and other trinkets littered the farthest reaches of the shadows—some overturned, their contents spilled in hasty abandon. The rest of Horsey's charms hung from crooked hooks or lay in precarious piles, the golden teeth Horsey requested being one among them.
As he approached the object and removed it from its hook, his hand brushed across Horsey's tools set upon a makeshift workbench—a collection of shiny metal implements for alien rituals Swinebroth could only guess at. Objects imbued with power he knew only by superstition.
He had never asked questions. Never. What did he need to know, really?
With the task completed, the boy leaned against the bed frame, his head drooping as the weight of the afternoon's events settled heavily upon him. This bunker had never truly felt lived in to him. Just by his outstretched feet lay a thin strip of flooring, just wide enough to sleep on, and little else. That was all his. He closed his eyes, drawing in a breath to steady himself.
For a boy with no memories worth keeping, no name worth saying, and no bed before this that did not belong to someone's grave—this would do.
This sliver of solace would have to suffice.
There was a palpable unease in the air upon Swinebroth's return to the grand hall, the golden teeth in hand. A certain type of hostility which he knew the cause of all too well.
"Whiskers, you are free to leave this evening to us," Little Harlot's voice sliced through the murmurs, firm and decisive. The others did not flinch. They knew the choice was set in stone. Whiskers was an enigma, a man whose presence unsettled them all. He did not seem like a part of the temple—he never had. He came and went as he pleased, slipping in and out of the temple's embrace as though the walls held no claim on him like it did for the rest of the templemen. After having been gone for over a week, he had returned.
Swinebroth had almost forgotten about him. It would come as no surprise if the others did too.
"Oh, let him breathe for a second, will you?" A tall Setikos named Goatswhistle laughed from across the room, swaying as he downed another bottle of wine. "He has only just arrived."
The performers—each adorned in tailored garments for their respective acts—stood silently, their eyes firmly fixed on the ground. They knew better than to risk meeting Whiskers' gaze. To confront him was to invite unease; it was better to avoid his gaze altogether.
Nearby, Horsey worked tirelessly among the horse-drawn carriages, directing preparations for the night ahead. They, too, had already drawn out the massive cages containing temple-bred winged entities. As such, he could barely spare Whiskers a glance, flicking his wrist dismissively. "I care not what he does. Let him be. Pitch needs more fittings than he does anyway."
Goatswhistle, ever the instigator, could not resist. "Alright, I get it. You are all shy." He giggled. "All groups, come. Let us be fair to our fellow setikos. Let us vote. Whoever loses will have to welcome a new member into their party," he suggested, lips curling into a smile.
Swinebroth wished Goatswhistle had said nothing at all.
Turning to face Whiskers, Goatswhistle tilted his head. "It is what it is, old man, when you are to come late like Little Harlot," Goatswhistle said, his words more a jab than a statement.
The room fell into silence, all eyes shifting to Whiskers. It was always like this when Whiskers was in the room, even if he had yet to utter a single word. Whiskers' unkempt, bearded face remained still, his expression unreadable. Yet in his eyes there was something intensely watchful, calculating. The boy did not know what it was. None could harbor a guess.
Goatswhistle began. "Alright, you mutes. I will preside. All in favor of this say–"
"Abstaining," Whiskers interrupted with a heavy voice before turning to leave. What stopped him in that moment was a glint—small, sun-bright, and damning—that caught his eye. He froze.
The catastrophically unaware child drew out the golden set of teeth from his pouch, turning them over in his palm. A precious item to be delivered.
Whiskers' gaze swept the room in a flash—apathetic faces, incomprehensible conversations, feet shuffling away—a sharp twist of disgust churned in his gut. He surged forward, anger boiling over. His hand darted out, striking the teeth from Swinebroth's grasp.
Swinebroth flinched as though struck. Cheeks flushing crimson as he dropped to his knees, he scrambled to retrieve the fallen object, praying it had evaded any serious damages. His fingers closed around the teeth, and he clutched them tightly as he rose, cradling them like a fragile treasure.
Whiskers towered over him.
"You ignorant fool!" he snarled, his voice venomous. He seized the boy by the shoulders, hauling him upright as if he weighed nothing. Swinebroth gasped, his breath stolen by the sudden force.
The hall fell into a breathless silence.
Whiskers leaned in close, shouting, "Do you know what you have on your hands?" Up close, Whiskers' wild, untamed mane of grey curls poked at Swinebroth's torso. He might not have washed in days, weeks even, going by the smell. Strands escaped to frame his face, casting shadows over his bulging eyes. "Teeth coated in gold, ripped from a corpse that went cold this very evening. A man dead before his blood even dried. You thought it wise to flaunt it here?"