Chapter Text
Kit Marlowe approached the Boarshead Inn empty-handed. He had been hanging around his rooms all day, trying to formulate his play, something to really stick it to Billy Shakes.
But no ideas had come. He hadn’t been to the produce monger yet this week, but he could not continue to live in this drab state. What was he without dreams, without creativity? Cue a dramatic gaze toward the horizon.
Hopefully if he was quick about it, he could be struck with a divine bout of inspiration before he was noticed by the resident Fixer.
As he approached the front door, he heard voices within.
“Let us now read the minutes from last month’s meeting,” a woman’s voice proclaimed.
There was a rumbling of approval from others.
“At our last meeting hereupon, events occurred which forced us all into a solemn vow of secrecy. May the bristles of the boar be with thee.”
“And with thy haunches,” a chorus of others chanted.
Oh good lord, it was a cult! Now he simply had to know what was afoot.
The speaker continued. “To make a long story short, we now have baby boars!”
There was a mix of awwww’s and cheers from the others.
“And our new lord and savior has disappeared, but I’m sure that’s all right!” This too was met with general agreement, with a few voices piping up.
“We ought to put together a search party to locate them.”
“Poor thing shouldn’t be left alone with the mark of the chosen one.”
“Dangerous, yes.”
The original voice returned. “All right, then, that can be our final work of the day. Now, does anyone have any grievances they wish to air this day?”
Marlowe eased the side door open and snuck into the inn, going a ways before pressing himself up against the wall. He was facing the backs of hooded figures, and he was in the open, but he was small. They would never know he was there.
All the figures had their hands up to be called upon, some of them jumping in the air.
“Elder Rip Skeleton, if you would please!” their bubbly leader called.
The character in the rocking chair rose and flipped back its hood to reveal none other than the gravedigger.
What was he doing in such company? He was an odd one, certainly, but like Artie, he seemed to be a favorite of the queen’s.
The man cleared his throat. “I went out to garden my humble plot of land, only to find it raining for the fifth time this week. It’s witchery, and I will demand answers from the clouds.” He shook his fist at the supposed offenders.
Their leader cocked their head in thought. “That will need amending. We need not an old man yelling at the clouds.”
An additional figure flipped down their hood. Hortenzio Ba’Roque.
He raised a finger to make a point. “But we art in England, no? It is supposed to rain.”
Rip chuckled. “Master Ba’Roque, how quaint that you think this is really England.”
A fourth figure, who revealed itself to be a smiling Imogen Tumbrel, piped up. “We needs not be breakin’ the fourth wall now.”
The others stared at her in confusion. The leader shook themself.
“Anyway, back to the matter of witchcraft. We shall contact Fuller Mugg and have her track down the culprit promptly. All in favor?”
Everyone’s hand went in the air, some of them twice over. The leader banged a gavel against their podium with gusto.
“Now that it is settled, are there any other grievances among thee?”
A general negative was murmured.
The leader clapped their hands. “Oh, goodie. That means we can find our savior! Let me just get more comfortable.” They flipped down their hood. Underneath was none other than Genevieve Grimes. “I now call to order this meeting of the Mount Hope HomeOwners' Association!”
Marlowe’s face performed a series of outraged gymnastics. First, Ginny Grimes, who could barely count the fingers on her hand, was the leader of something? Secondly, Mount Hope had an HOA?
Were he not restricted in movement for fear of being caught, he would shake his head most disapprovingly. He thought they were better than that.
But the cretins were not done. No, HOAs could never make anything brief.
“We gots to catch them like a rat,” Grimes suggested.
“But ‘ow? Zey art meant to have great powers, no?”
“Aye, but they’ll be confused. The transformation can be quite harrowing,” Rip said, smiling all the while.
“And how dare you compare zem to a rat!” Adamine Sauvage growled. “Zey are much more than zat, being the perfect combination of our blessed boar and a human!”
Ginny took this as an opportunity to say, “May the bristles of the boat be with thee.” Her hands went to the sides of her face, thumbs tucked under her chin, pinkies out.
“And with thy haunches,” everyone echoed.
Then it was back to arguing. Mistress Sauvage was pointing a finger at Ginny whilst the rat catcher kept a pleasant, if dazed, smile. Meanwhile, Hortenzio attempted to mediate them. Imogen stood back, waving her hands in a vaguely dissenting manner.
Good god, at the rate they were going, the HOA would be broken up before the end of this meeting. Huzzah!
This prediction was appearing likely until Rip hauled himself out of his chair and let out a piercing old man grunt, raising his shovel on high.
Everyone turned to him.
“Why don’t we sacrifice to the boar for answers? It should know where its own ambassador is.”
There was nodding and Hortenzio commented, “I don’t know why we didn’t think of zis before. It’s usually how zees meetings go.”
“Too true. And who do you suggest we sacrifice, Master Skeleton? We can always find more troubled nipperkins.”
The old man chuckled. “There be no need of that. There’s a good candidate already in this room.”
All those present stepped back with their hands on their noses, proclaiming “Not I!”
Everyone save Adamine, that is. She stepped forward and spread her arms as if to welcome the boar.
The others eyed her with uncertainty.
“Not thee,” Rip decided. “How about the man who’s been eavesdropping on our meeting this entire time?” He pointed one gnarled fingernail right at Marlowe.
As one, the HOA turned to him.
Ah. He forgot he was an active player in this narrative.
He shifted position to casually lean against the wall rather than hug it. “Ah, good day. You see, I was admiring this wall. You understand, Ba’Roque-“
Adamine cried, “After him!” and charged.
He took off for the stairs, hoping to lose them among the back hallways.
The voices of his pursuers faded as he pranced away with as much haste as his tiny legs would allow. He came upon a hallway he was certain would lead them in a circle, only to find it bricked up.
Marlowe shoved it with his shoulder, certain his eyes deceived him. “Nay, not now. I must pass!”
The voices of the HomeOwners' Association approached. “Kit, we only want a talk with thee,” Ginny’s call rang out.
Marlowe pressed himself against the wall with more vigor. Under no circumstances would those cretins touch him. He beat a fist upon the bricks, yet they remained solid. “Prithee, let me pass!”
A shadow appeared around the corner. “Marlowe…”
A hand shot out of the wall and grabbed the front of his shirt.
An unmanly shriek escaped him (though he would later claim otherwise). He was unceremoniously yanked through the secret passage in the wall; however, this was not done without resistance. He repeatedly brought his elbow back to catch his assailant in the face, but found only air. He was spun around to face a familiar countenance.
“Artie!” he hissed.
The man didn’t look him in the face, instead focusing his attention on patting down the front of Marlowe’s doublet.
He batted the tinkerer’s hands away. “I have no apples for thee today, man. Now, couldst thou assist me in ridding the inn of these nuisances that call themselves an HOA?”
The corner of Artie’s eye twitched. “No apples?”
“Aye, correct. I have a plan for this-“
Artie cut him off. “No apples, no help.”
“Oh, thou canst not be serious. ‘Tis only fruit!”
The wild man shoved him back, growling.
Marlowe fell against the door leading back to the hallway. “Stop! They shall hear thee.”
Artie carefully looked past him to where the HOA was still doubtless hounding after him. He made eye contact with Kit.
And let out one of his piercing yells, pushing Marlowe back out of the secret passageway, directly into the path of Ginny Grimes.
The rat catcher staggered at the inconsiderable weight of Marlowe, more surprised than anything.
Kit snapped to attention, doing a hair flip in the process. “Ginny, I’m not sorry for what I’m about to do.”
“What-“
He brought his hand down on Ginny’s shoulder. “Kit Marlowe chop!”
The woman went down like a stack of sandbags.
Marlowe carried on, pretending to hold a crossbow.
He checked around corners and talked into his hand as if it were a communication device, steadily making his way back to the main hall. He came across a cult member with their back toward him. He crept up behind them, preparing his next move.
“Marlowe neck pinch!” He delivered the attack, but the person only whipped around. It was Hortenzio.
“Marlowe, what art thou doing?”
“Vulcan neck pinch?”
“Nay, ‘tis far too high. ‘Tis meant to be much lower, where ze shoulder meets ze neck.” He moved Marlowe’s hand to the correct position. “Here.”
“Oh, thank thee.” He applied the necessary pressure.
“‘Tis no trouble,” Hortenzio said as he went down.
Marlowe shoved him out of the way and kept running.
He burst into the main hall once more, taking stock of the two cult members on the second floor. Imogen Tumbrel burst out of the cellar, effectively blocking the side entrance.
Marlowe took stock.
Tumbrel had an armful of weapons. Perfect!
Kit lunged for her, but she dodged. He rocked from foot to foot with his fists raised.
Imogen rocked back and forth to keep time with him, giving them the appearance of being locked in a strange dance.
“What art we doing?” she asked.
“No clue!” he replied.
Imogen feinted towards him, which proved too much for the weapons in her arms. They spilled into the floor, a sword coming to rest next to Marlowe’s foot. It wasn’t a crossbow, but it would do.
Imogen grabbed for a weapon simultaneously to him, coming up with a dagger.
Marlowe pointed his sword at her. “Mine’s bigger than thine.”
He swung his sword high, only to be parried by Imogen’s dagger. She backed up and stabbed at him, or rather the air a few feet in front of him. It really wasn’t an effective tactic, but it prevented Marlowe from being stabbed, so he wasn’t complaining.
“What art thou doing?” Imogen called over her shoulder.
Rip and Adamine stood back, shifting their weight back and forth like they could jump into the action at any time, but they never did.
“Come on, bring it!” Marlowe wheezed. “I can handle a challenge.” This was cut off by a nasty cough. “Ooh, my little actor lungs.”
Rip didn’t pause in his movement to say, “‘Tis the rules. We can only attack one at a time.”
Kit and Imogen shared a look and a shrug.
The former made a break for it, running behind the bar and posing like a superhero, whereupon he cried out, “May the theater gods be with me!” He jumped up (making sure to strike a fashionable pose at his apex) and when he landed, there was no floor.
He fell an extra untold height and landed hard on his ankle. He went down like a human sandbag, curling on his side to protect himself further.
All was dark around him. There was not even the faintest outline to distinguish his surroundings.
He located a wall and felt along it for any sign of a door, but he only found a corner.
Strange. The others had never encountered this phenomenon when they used the passage during the Brawl.
He continued his quest for a door, but came up with just another corner.
All right, that one was definitely not supposed to be there. A complete inspection revealed a room of slight dimensions, about six feet longwise and crossways. It was as if the inn had constructed new walls just to trap him.
He should never have made that entreaty to the theater gods above. In escaping an HOA, he had somehow stumbled into a worse evil: the whims of the inn.
Something was dripping. A splash of mystery substance fell on his shoulder, then rolled off down the back of his jerkin.
That had been far too solid to be a simple leak. And the smell was reminiscent of the Globe Theatre floor after one of Shakespeare’s flops - covered in rotten produce or spit, depending how unimpressed the audience was.
He shook in revulsion and ducked away from the place where the slime had dripped. Even feeling that through his layers was too much. It was decidedly a horrendous sensory ick.
As his eyes adjusted, he found himself in a small square room. The walls were all damp and dank. There was some mystery substance dripping, forming suspicious puddles on the floor.
This was still a room with walls. Surely they could be knocked down. Marlowe took a running leap at one, ramming his shoulder into it. The wall, inconsiderate thing, did not make way for the inn’s regular basement, but instead remained solid. He stumbled back, holding his hurt shoulder.
He tried to punch and pry and scratch his way through the corners of the room, but that only resulted in a soaked doublet and one (1) broken nail.
He had learned tricks as a spy, but they had all deserted him now. There was no draft, no light, and no sewage outlet that he could find, yet the place persisted in growing ever slimier.
Marlowe’s skin crawled. Was the air growing thinner? He couldn’t breathe. He held his throat in one hand and massaged his chest with the other.
There had to be a way out. This was no way for the great Christopher Marlowe to die. He turned to each of the walls in succession, trying to hum Quest: Improbable to soothe himself, but stopped short every time an exit failed to present itself.
He tried shaking off the goo he had gotten on his skin and clothes; however, it was as reluctant to leave him as a carriage insurance salesman.
As a last ditch effort, Marlowe called out to anyone who might hear. “Master Ba’Roque? Mount Hope HOA? Artie? Artie, I swear to purchase for thee as many apples as thou wishest if thou couldst find me a way out of here.”
All these pleas were met with silence.
Marlowe was dejected, curled up on the floor. The foul puddles soaked through his hose at the knees. His head was bowed so low he did not initially notice the shift in the room. A breeze ruffled his hair. Breeze. Air. There was air!
He lifted his head to find three of the walls had retreated. He was in an ordinary cellar, as he should have been. The foul waters had retreated to make way for the damp underground.
Marlowe drew grateful, gasping breaths. He clutched his chest as if his air would be stolen from him and he could manually keep it in his body.
He stood and ran for the door on shaky legs. He dared not use the walls for stability. They had proven themselves untrustworthy today.
Back in the Boarshead barroom, the HOA was gone, but Marlowe cared not. He did not stop to take note of his surroundings until he was outside, making every attempt to keep his burning lungs in his body as he heaved.
He should’ve been more curious than ever, but instead he made all haste away from the inn, not even pausing to look back.
He completely missed the eyes that watched him go.