Post by Sire Halfblack on Aug 4, 2014 19:52:38 GMT
Jurrle IM 1003
Three carriages drew level with the eastern gates of the City and the Watchman on duty almost waved them to a halt for following them were a number of wagons each piled high with covered furniture. His companion held his arm though when he spotted the crest on the second carriages door.
“Nobles.” He pointed out. “Gelmanslew I reckon.”
“Lot of them.”
“Lot of stuff.” The second shrugged. It seemed an odd time of year to move between cities but even he had heard of the killings that had been taking place amongst the Nobility and he doubted that if his family was in specific danger of death whether he would have the wish to remain. Deci was his home, it had always been since the first time he had bawled his lungs free in the filthy garret his mother had managed to find lodgings in and though he could not have said that he loved the place he did not know of anywhere else he could go. Eartholme was close enough to walk in an easy week but it was too damn snooty. Though he supposed they would probably welcome a trained Watchman. It was tough duty in the Watch, especially now all these snarling mercenaries had joined. Crime was part of Deci, it was everywhere and grew and changed with the seasons. Of course most people wished it wasn’t there but then most of what elsewhere would have been productive, guilded citizens were the criminals themselves.
Things had gotten better of late the Watchman had to admit. All these new markets, bucket poles and the like and he suspected they would continue to be added to but he was glad that he wasn’t the one to try and saddle the settlement. It had not been so bad, he suspected, a few years ago. Then the thieves and assassins had numerous Guilds and spent most of their time fighting one another. But since the death of the Fatman no one was going to hang about anywhere organised. It made them a target. No Deci had become a city of individuals and whilst that made his job easier it was hard to combat. Criminality was ingrained in the city’s soul and it grew, and bred, and spawned more of itself with each passing month.
Across town and Scuttler coughed in the cellar he had taken for himself. He had selected his target the other week and now only waited for the right moment. He loved fire, did Scuttler. They had teased him in the gangs, called him ‘Scuttler’ after he had burnt the bakers down, after he had taken to dragging the great iron bucket around with him so that he was always prepared. He had wanted to be a wizard but simply had not had the attention span to cope with the training, or the money. Being a wizard took years of dull book reading and practise. All Scuttler wanted to do was set fire to things, why couldn’t the wizards concentrate on the fun bits? He knew that people had seen him about and no doubt were laughing about Scuttler. Well, he’d show them! Hell yes, he’d show them.
But the first cold had arrived and the people were listless. Everyone was hungry and though no one was starving, well, no one important at any rate, no one was ever able to throw off the persistent hunger. The markets had only a little food and the price was alarming. In the Heartlands they would be making beds out of the bloody wheat in a month or two, maybe three. But in Deci they’d have to turn to other sources of food. Rat wasn’t so bad and when there wasn’t rat, why, a tasty haunch of slow-runner would do just as well.
By Alan Morgan (CI5V8)