The Untenable City - Opening Scene

[Opening Scene] Of all the ways to celebrate Quinn Frost’s birthday, this was far from ideal. Too bad city officials gave residents of Calystan little choice in the matter. Had it been up to Quinn, she’d already be halfway down a flagon of crisp, sweet ale and all the way up the Nine Lives terrace. Impatience bubbled in her chest like a venom as Quinn scaled the familiar four flights of musty stairs. Up, up, dread rising with her altitude.        

It felt like just yesterday Quinn was standing before the Teller’s sneering face, trying not to inhale the centuries-old debris that no doubt carried every number of toxic molds known to the Gods. Like just yesterday she was told her prospects of going to Aetheria were “neutral at best,” and she’d better work a heck of a lot harder to earn her slot among the angels. After all, she was only human. Life was about five-centuries shorter for her than most beings on this planet.

Like she needed the reminder.          

The creaking floorboards dipped below her feet as Quinn paused, throat bobbing, before the arched door. How many fled this room in relief? How many in tears? It was a cruel ritual to impose on an otherwise joyous occasion but, then again, this world wasn’t renowned for its kindness. Quinn knew that best of all.

She didn’t bother to knock before entering the shabby attic—blinking past the dust particles that skewed her vision to find a humanoid figure propped in a makeshift throne along the backwall. Quinn’s hands found the fringe of her jean jacket as she skulked forward, pressing her clammy palm to the aura meter standing erect in the center of the room. It hummed beneath her skin. Or maybe that was her roaring pulse.            

“Quinn Frost,” the Teller acknowledged as her hand fell from the gauge.

Let’s get this over with, is what Quinn wanted to say. But instead, she asked, “On your birthday, do you give yourself a future?”   

Clutter littered the tight space, pinning Quinn on either side with bookshelves and ancient statues. Some were offerings to curry favor with the gods, but then, other items appeared otherworldly. Hides of creatures she’d never seen. Artifacts from a distant past; a history that eluded her kind.    

The Teller didn’t bother to laugh before responding in a hoarse, hollow voice, “I exist beyond time, and thus bear no present, past, or future.”

“So, you don’t have a birthday?”

“The Gods have viewed your history, Quinn Frost,” the Teller ignored her question, “and have ascertained your Rising outlook.”

Quinn studied the chipped woodwork, pulse thrumming in her neck with a violence that was surely visible to the Teller. Assuming the Teller—whose face she’d never seen—had eyes. The mustiness served a purpose beyond asphyxiation, she learned after twenty-four visits. It shrouded the Teller’s identity. For all Quinn knew, this humanoid being was part lizard, which would certainly explain the smell.

“So,” Quinn muttered, squinting through the haze. “Is it the Maw for me, then?”

The Maw. A shudder crawled up her spine despite the springtime heat. If Aetheria was the land of goodness, brimming with crisp-winged angels and lyre-strumming spirits, the Maw was a black pit. Riddled with demons of her childhood nightmares, the Maw beheld seven rings—each one step deeper, darker, into the depths of eternal agony.

If her soul should fall there…

“For you, it is…” the Teller began, shifting slightly, “it is…” they drew a breath, pausing once again. “It…”

Quinn was at the precipice, anticipation swelling in her chest until it threatened to implode. Jittery hands tugged harder on her jacket. She told herself she didn’t care, but the more the Teller lingered…seriously, what was taking so long?

“Well,” the Teller’s voice hardened. “The answer is none.”

Oh good, none.

Wait…none?

When visiting the Teller, three answers were given: Good, Bad, and Neutral. Last year, Quinn received a neutral outlook, meaning the gods hadn’t decided if, after she died, her soul would rise to Aetheria or sink to the Maw. Her community service efforts this year should’ve tipped the scales in favor of ascension.

“I don’t understand,” Quinn’s voice strained, throat tight. “What is none?”

“What the gods have decreed.”

“Right,” Quinn stepped forward, “but what does it mean?”

“It means the gods have decided your outlook is none.”

Quinn’s hands shook. She shoved them in her pockets to resist clamping them around the Teller’s throat—assuming it had one of those, too. With a slightly hoarse inflection, she demanded, “What kind of an outlook is none?”

“Yours.”

“And where would that take me?”

“Nowhere.”

“But that’s—”

“Another inquirer approaches,” the Teller remarked, noting the floorboards’ groan behind the door.

The hinges of her jaw groaned until she feared her teeth might shatter. Quinn heard stories of restless spirits scouring the planet, doomed to roam for eternity. Forgotten souls. Was that what the Teller, what the gods, meant? She opened her mouth to protest—to command an answer—but a knock on the door captured her words.

“There’s no need to return, Quinn Frost,” the Teller gestured to the door. “My services are no longer required.”

A druid entered, flooding the room with fresh light, party hat tilted to one side. His loopy smile was smothered by the room's tension. Quinn spun back to the Teller, a blistering retort bubbling up her throat to settle on the tip of her tongue. It wasn't worth it though; it never was, so she choked down her indignation and stormed from the room. Gratitude be damned.