Drifting Down Chapter 1 Escape

Disclaimer: Still playing, do not own!

Warnings/Tags: M/M (slash), angst/romance, h/c, mentions of past abuses (incl childhood) you know I'll warn when that comes up. Typical violence that we have come to expect in this fandom. I will adjust tags and character listings as necessary.

He had only one trick left in his arsenal, and it would cost him dearly to use it.

Hovering on the edge of a precipice, literal and figurative, he had seconds to decide before pursuers were on him.

"Dammit" slipped from his mouth. Shrugging off his empty quiver, he unbuttoned his shirt and discards the thin fabric. A bit of concentration and feathers exploded all around him.

He hears shouting that gets louder behind him as he swiftly unstrung his bow, slipping the braided cord into a pouch on his belt before he leapt into the pale blue sky. The shouting cut off as his wings manage to get him out of range of all but sniper rifle fire. He breathed a little easier the further he got, but cursed his luck. He'll have to leave town again, earlier than he wanted.

As he flew, he considered his options and his resources. The gear he left behind is automatically a loss, and it briefly stings. Some of it he'll miss, some is just replaceable drek. At least this job was paid already, regardless of the outcome, though he'd made the shot. His intel hadn't indicated the garrison's worth of guards that had somehow still been around, and had spilled from the house like angry wasps to chase him until they caught him, or he'd escaped. Briefly, he wondered if his intel for the job had been spotty. He'd done the best he could, but the info he'd gotten from his employer could have been incomplete.

He flew for hours, the sun eventually setting, before discovering he was hungry, and needed a place to land. He saw the spire of a church, bell glistening in the dim street lights and spun down to land at a jog in the churchyard where he found a door unlocked and pushed his way inside. Quietly he wandered, looking for a donation box that might have clothes. He hates taking from churches, and always tries to repay them in some fashion.

This time, he's lucky, the donation box is swiftly found, and rifled through. He concentrated and his wings disappear into his back, leaving only silvery gray, tattoo like marks along his entire back. The gray Henley is two sizes too big, but he doesn't care. From another pouch on his belt, he pulled a wad of cash, and went in search of the priest's office.

Once there, he hunted down an envelope and stuffs the cash in, leaving at least $200 in a mix of bills. The return address label tells him he's in Dubuque, Iowa. Well, not the best place to be, but he's been in worse. He just can't go back to Potosi, Wisconsin now. The niggling thought that this job had been a set up to remove him from the business was a growing concern in the back of his mind.

He'd deal with all this, but first, a place to sleep, and food, are in order. He left the church and found a way to town on foot.