Work Text:
It began with a simple gesture. The scream of a guitar and the thunder of a drum made the background as bodies shoved against one another closer to the stage. Blood pumping, breathless laughter and crowing shouts all danced together.
Gyorik Rogdul had never felt so at ease since he left the Northern Tribes. The silly rules of this “modern” society were shed like unwanted and ill-fitting skin by all within this warehouse. He had not approached the center pit yet, instead he kept a sharp eye on the movements. This was not his home, so he would allow these warriors to show their own steps first.
Then someone was shoving something into his hands.
A folded paper, or a little book?
“Hey, what’s this?” he blurted out, as he searched for the person that handed this off.
“It’s a zine!” They crowed back. A set of four horns, two hooking upward and two hooking down were the most distinguishing feature of the tiefling that so easily moved within the crowd, seemingly passing out zines as they went.
York looked down at the “zine” in hand. A ton of fucking common but each page offered different quick drawings that varied between a trash can on fire to what looked like a book open with a smiling brain flexing. Briefly York considered saving the thing for Rosé to read for him, but patience? That was never his virtue.
Why wait when a hunter could find what is needed now?
It takes longer than he would like to have found the tiefling, laughing loudly while sitting on an ice chest.
“Hey! What does this say?” he demanded easily, the zine in hand. They tilted their head, brows furrowed.
“Dude, read it later.” They replied with a wave of their hand, a tote bag between their knees, several zines seen in the folds.
“I can’t.”
“What, not worth your time, dickhead?”
“No, damn, I can’t read.”
Silence stretched between them even as the band never faltered. York balled his fist, the zine crinkled in his grip. He shoved it in his back pocket.
“Look, I’ll just ask my friends when I get back.” He grumbled, remembering Grandma explaining how people get defensive and it won’t help make friends or something.
A hand came to his elbow.
“No, man, I was a douche. I shouldn’t have assumed.” They apologized quickly, the hand immediately moved back, both palms out to York.
“Common not your first language or did your family not use common standard writing?” They asked, suddenly professional through and through. Briefly they reminded York of Jancy.
“I’m from the Northen Tribes, I can read Orcish Runes.” He offered, suddenly imbalanced.
“Shit, yeah, I have been trying to find someone to help me translate these into Orcish.” A frown of frustration, but they quickly shook it off. They offered a wide smile, fangs glinting in the low light.
“Look, there are common and standard writing courses at the library, you should come by! I can make you a map!” They continued with renewed excitement. They reached for their bag, as York stepped back.
“No, I got some friends who help me out. I don’t need to learn.” He shook his head, he wasn’t looking to learn anything tonight.
The professional spike quickly shifted it seemed.
“Are you serious? Look I’m glad you have friends you trust or whatever—”
“They’re great—”
“I’m sure, but what about the people who aren’t great?”
“I’ll fight them.”
“Okay, but what if you can’t fight them?”
“I can fight anyone.”
“What if you don’t know you should fight them?” York’s brows furrowed, another shake of his head. Should he fight everyone? They were left at an impasse, another bout of silence. Then the tiefling gave a deep sigh.
“Let’s start over. I’m Lila. Is this your first show?” They tried another smile, this one smaller, not a flash of fang to be seen.
“York. And yeah.” A nod.
“Okay. Well, I’m here a lot. And I care, a lot. The world isn’t great, and you should be able to advocate for yourself. Knowing the field can give you the advantage, right?” They crouch down and pull a notebook from their bag. They flip to a page, write something quickly and tear it free.
On the page is a map. A map of downtown it seems, based on several landmarks crudely drawn down and the arrows. At the bottom of the map was a drawn book and a string of numbers both in common and orcish (even if the orcish looked like it was written by a baby).
“I – uh didn’t know if you know common standard numbers, and I had a neighbor from the Northern Tribes when I was a kid. I should have listened more.” They rambled beside him.
It was a schedule.
This absolute stranger who could run through crowds of these warriors figured out how to give him this information and a map for it all.
“If you come to the library or the next show, uh, look for me if you want. I’ll look into runes, but if you ever want those brain muscles to show off as much as those physical ones, we can help!” they pushed just a smidge more, before they furrowed their brows. “Not that your brain isn’t physical? Or that not knowing standard makes your brain muscles not big? Oh fuck, gods damnit.”
York looked from the paper to their face. He had never seen a tiefling who was already at such a red toned state flush to nearly purple before.
He laughed.
“Thanks.”
They released a sound like a deflating balloon.
“Okay, sick. I’ll leave you to it. Go thrash.” They picked up their bag, another parting smile, and they vanished into the crowd once again.
*
York would blame Rosé and Grandma until he died. It wasn’t like York wasn’t aware of how many things there were to read. He was a detective for fucks sake! He knew how much Rosé and Grandma had to read for him. But it was like it was nonstop the whole week after the show.
Grandma talking about a board game they liked, one that York couldn’t read the rules for himself.
Rose talking about the current romance “novel” she was reading.
Even video games couldn’t remedy York’s frustrations, as it was this fucking week that he learned his favorite game (based on game play) had a whole different story than he thought.
He hadn’t even thought about where he was going when the final straw happened.
Rosé had written a note that she wouldn’t be home that evening.
Grandma had taken a last-minute dog walking service.
And York had promptly nearly caused a house fire because he couldn’t read the instructions on the recipe written out. He hadn’t known where his friends were; and the fight he had gotten into with Rose had ended with a flat.
“Because I couldn’t read it.”
Then he ended up on this walk.
Until he stood before the library.
“Fuck it.”
He walked inside, and right at the desk at the center of the walkway, was Lila.
They looked different from the punk show, but their smile was the same.
“York! Can I help you?”
“Yeah.”