Eldritch Guidance-Chapter 145 – Voices

The polished leather of Theo’s shoes gleamed under the flickering gaslight of the shoe-shining station as the small, nimble fingers of the mouse mutant worked diligently. The rhythmic brushstrokes were almost soothing, a stark contrast to the chaos splashed across the newspaper in Theo’s hands. The bold headline stared back at him:

"ECOLOGISTS WARN: MOUNT GOL ENVIRONMENT WILL TAKE A DECADE TO RECOVER AFTER MAGE DUEL"

Theo exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he adjusted his round spectacles.

Theo: “Crazy times we live in,” he muttered, licking his thumb before flipping the page. “First, a necromancer infiltrates the University, then another turns up in the Arcanium Archives. And now? Archmages dueling like street thugs, reducing entire landscapes to cinders.” He tapped the paper with the back of his hand. “At this rate, we’ll be lucky if the Union has any land left to stand on in a few years.”

Beside him, Hucker—a fellow investor clad in the same sharp suit and tie, though with a slightly more worn waistcoat—chuckled darkly as he took a drag from his cigar. The smoke curled lazily in the cramped space.

Hucker: “Aye, and that’s not even the worst of it. Heard the High Senate’s calling a vote soon—debating whether to intervene in Gix’s civil war.” He lowered his voice, though the shoe-shining worker's ears twitched. “If they push for involvement, the whole Union might get dragged into another Great War.”

Theo raised an eyebrow.

Theo: “You really think they’ll vote to send troops?”

Hucker: “Not a chance. Spoke to half a dozen investors at the Exchange yesterday. Everyone agrees—war was profitable in the early years, but now? Gix’s conflict’s dragging on too long. Supply lines are strained, markets and food prices are unstable, and expanding this mess into Union territory?” He shook his head. “Bad for business. And if the business community doesn’t want it, and the common folk are already protesting conscription…” He made a dismissive gesture. “That vote’s dead in the water before it’s even cast.”

Theo nodded slowly, then leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

Theo: “I’ve also heard… the Nighthounds are gathering.”

Hucker’s cigar stilled mid-air. His eyes flicked to the small mouse mutant, who was now studiously polishing a buckle, ears angled away—whether out of discretion or fear, it was hard to say.

Hucker: “Where’d you hear that?” Hucker murmured.

Theo: “Steve. He said the Nighthounds have cordoned off the Night Tower. No one can get within three blocks of it. And, rumor is that all the Hound Masters are being summoned.”

Hucker’s jaw tightened. He took a long drag before responding.

Hucker: “Listen. You didn’t hear this from me, but keep that information buried. And if you value your neck, stay out of the East End for the next few weeks.” His voice was gravelly with warning. “When the Nighthounds move, things happen. Bad things. The kind that don’t make it into your pretty little broadsheets until after the bodies are found… if they're found.”

Theo swallowed, adjusting his collar. The mouse mutant handed him his shoes with a quiet,

Mouse Mutant: “All done, sirs.” they said, finishing the polishing.

Theo:"Quick as always, son," flashing a grin as he admired the polished gleam of his shoes in the flickering gaslight. He tilted one foot, then the other, watching the leather catch the dim glow of the streetlamp. "Damn near reflective enough to see my future in."

Hucker: "Damn fine work, boy," Hucker added, tilting his own foot to inspect the flawless shine before nodding in approval. He flicked a bit of ash from his cigar, the ember briefly illuminating the sharp angles of his face. "Better than half the joints in the Market District, and for a fraction of the price."

The mouse mutant girl—small, her fur a muted gray, her ears twitching slightly—hesitated before responding. Her fingers, still smudged with polish, curled into her palms.

Mouse Mutant: "Um… thank… you?" she murmured, her whiskers flickering in quiet frustration.

She was used to this. The assumptions. The careless words. The way men like these—well-dressed, loud, always in a hurry—never really saw her. Just another street worker, another nameless thing to toss coins at before moving on.

Before she could correct them, the two businessmen rose from their seats, dropped a few coins into her waiting palm, and strode off without a second glance, their polished shoes clicking against the cobblestones as they disappeared into the evening crowd. The scent of tobacco and cologne lingered behind them, thick enough to make her nose twitch.

She sighed, her tail curling around her legs as she watched them go. The coins in her palm were cold, their edges worn smooth from countless exchanges. Not bad pay, but not enough to make up for the sting.

Mouse Mutant: "But I’m not a boy," she muttered under her breath, tucking the coins into her worn apron pocket. "I’m a girl. Also, I’m twenty-five years old, not a child."

The mutant mouse girl, named Ash, was commonly mistaken for a child.

It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t even really their fault—not entirely. Mutants like her faced this all the time: unless your mutation left you looking obviously, undeniably adult or human-passing, people defaulted to assumptions. And Ash? Well, she was misaged and misgendered all the time.

Her voice was high-pitched, bright enough to belong to a prepubescent boy. Her stature—just a hair under four feet—made her look like a kid who’d gotten lost on their way to school. And then there were the features: the soft gray fur, the twitching whiskers, the ears like two giant satellite dishes perched atop her head. None of it helped. Humans relied on cues like height, jawlines, and body shape to guess age and gender. Ash, meanwhile, looked like someone had taken a teenage girl, shrunk her down, and then stapled a pair of dinner plates to her skull.

And her clothes didn’t help either.

She had zero interest in frills, lace, or anything that screamed "traditional femininity." Dresses? Impractical. Skirts? A tripping hazard. Instead, she lived in her patched denim jacket, sturdy overalls, and a flat cap jammed between her ears.

The result?

"Hey, kid, you lost?"

"Nice shine, little man!"

"Boy, fetch me a paper, would ya?"

Every. Damn. Day.

At first, she’d corrected people. "I’m a woman, actually. I’m twenty-five, not twelve." But after the thousandth blank stare, the thousandth "Oh, uh… sorry?" followed by absolutely no change in behavior, she’d given up. What was the point? The world saw what it wanted to see.

Still, sometimes—when some smug businessman patted her head like she was a stray dog, or when a street vendor tried to short-change her "for her own good"—she’d feel the old anger simmering under her fur.

Ash exhaled through her nose, forcing down the familiar prickle of irritation. “At least they tipped well.” That was something to be grateful for, even if they couldn’t be bothered to see her as anything more than a street urchin. She pocketed the coins, her fingers brushing against the few extra they’d tossed her way—probably out of pity, but she’d take it.

Then her ears twitched, swiveling slightly as the two businessmen’s voices carried back to her, even as they disappeared into the crowd.

Ash: "So the Nighthounds temporarily closed some of their brothels too, huh? It must be serious."

Ash hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. But with ears like hers—wide as saucers, sensitive enough to catch a whisper across the street—she didn’t have much of a choice. It was a blessing and a curse. She’d overheard secrets, scandals, and more than a few things she really wished she hadn’t. But this? This was useful.

Like most mutants in the city, Ash lived in the East End, in a small but surprisingly decent apartment above a laundromat. The place wasn’t glamorous, but it was affordable—which, in a city where landlords either gouged mutants for "risk premiums" or shoved them into crumbling tenements on the west end, was a miracle.

And she knew exactly why her rent was so reasonable.

The Nighthounds owned most of the East End, especially the buildings that didn’t reek of mold or come with a side of rat infestations. Officially, her landlord was just a gruff old badger mutant named Hessel. Unofficially? She was pretty sure he was Nighthound-affiliated. He never hassled her about late payments, never raised her rent, and always gave her a warning before any "unusual activity" happened in the neighborhood.

"You stay inside after dark tomorrow, girl," he’d grunt every so often. "Things get loud."

She always listened.

But this? A full Nighthound gathering? That wasn’t just "loud." That was dangerous.

The Night Tower and surrounding area was their domain—a jagged silhouette against the city’s neon-choked skyline, surrounded by a no-go zone whenever the Hound Masters, the leaders of the Nighthound, convened. Ash had never been stupid enough to get close, but she’d heard the stories. People who wandered into their territory at the wrong time tended to disappear.

And if they were locking things down now, it meant something big was coming.

Ash sighed, adjusting the strap of her shoe-shining kit.

No more late-night walks. No more shortcuts through the Red Light District. And definitely no more stopping by The Milky Nips for free drinks.

Her friend Mira worked there—a dog mutant with a sharp tongue and a soft spot for fellow East Enders. She’d always slide Ash a cheap ale or a glass of whatever wasn’t selling, no charge. But if the Nighthounds were mobilizing, the bars near their turf would either be packed with their enforcers or shuttered entirely.

Ash: "Guess I’m drinking at home for a while," she muttered.

Not ideal. But better than getting caught in whatever storm was brewing.

As she packed up her kit, Ash cast a glance toward the East End, where the Night Tower loomed in the distance.

She’d stay out of their way. She always did.

But part of her wondered—just for a second—what they were planning.

Ash had just shouldered her shoe-shine kit when the first voice cut through the hum of the city like a knife.

"Someone… please… help."

A child’s voice. Small. Trembling.

Her ears snapped upright, swiveling like radar dishes as her blood ran cold.

Then came more.

"Mama, please help. It hurts."

"I wanna go home."

"It's so dark..."

Dozens of them. Children—so many children—their voices layered over each other in a chorus of pain and fear. The sound prickled against Ash’s fur, making it bristle along her spine. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “What the hell was that?”

She spun, scanning the crowd. The afternoon bustle continued, oblivious—people haggling at stalls, cars driving past, a newsboy shouting headlines about the Mount Gol recovery efforts. No one else seemed to hear the screams.

Then her eyes locked onto a figure.

A hooded stranger in tattered brown robes, moving with deliberate haste through the throng. The moment Ash focused on them, the voices sharpened, clawing at her ears with renewed desperation.

"Don't let them take me!"

"Make it stop, make it stop—"

"HELP US!"

Ash’s stomach lurched. The voices were coming from this person.

Without thinking, she shouted.

Ash: "Hey, you!"

The robed figure froze—just for a second—before quickening their pace, slipping between bodies like a shadow.

Ash didn’t hesitate. She dropped her kit and bolted after them.

Dodging through the crowd wasn’t easy when you were three-and-a-half feet tall, but Ash had spent a lifetime weaving between careless legs. She ducked under a porter’s load, sidestepped a splashing puddle, and kept her eyes locked on that fluttering brown hood.

The voices grew louder the closer she got.

"They’re hurting us—"

"Why won’t anyone hear us?!"

A sudden, gut-churning realization hit her: “No one else can hear them. Just me.”

The figure twisted into an alleyway. Ash ran after them, her boots kicking up grime as she rounded the corner—

—and the figure was nowhere to be seen.

Ash skidded to a halt in the alleyway, her boots scraping against wet cobblestones as her eyes darted through the gloom. The hooded figure had vanished.

“No—impossible.” The alley was a dead end, walls slick with grime, stacked crates blocking any possible exit. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. And yet...

Gone.

The silence was worse than the screams.

A moment ago, the air had been thick with the sobs of unseen children, their voices clawing at her skull. Now, only the distant hum of the city remained—the clatter of carriage wheels, the murmur of passersby—ordinary sounds that suddenly felt hollow.

Ash's ears twitched, straining for any trace of those terrible whispers. Nothing.

Ash:"Where did they go?" she muttered, stepping deeper into the alley. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She sniffed the air—damp stone, rotting wood, the faint metallic tang of old blood. No trace of the robed stranger. No footprints. No disturbance in the grime. It was as if they had never been there at all.

Ash: "...Okay," her voice was shaky. "That’s definitely not normal."

She backed out of the alley, eyes scanning the shadows one last time.

Something strange was going on in this city.

And she had a sinking feeling it was only getting started.