03. Dust to Glass

Seated on the shores of Lake Lovalus, Rharne serves as the home of the Lighting Knights, the Thunder Priestesses, and the Merchant's guild. This beautiful trade city is filled with a happy and contented people who rarely need an excuse to party.

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Ptolemaios
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Joined: Sun Apr 01, 2018 12:34 pm
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Profession: Labourer
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03. Dust to Glass

2 Ashan 718

At first it was another detail in the horizon. Then it became an image taken out of a canvas. Finally, it became reality.

Even an entire cold season spent hibernating wouldn't've have prepared Maios’ senses for the disgust he felt for Rharne. His disdain was too strong. A decade ago he had tried to bury it. To his surprise, his scorn had taken root and made of the male a permanent host. Ever since he left he had never gone back. Not for supplies, not for work. Not even when Mistral Village was under siege by neverending rains six or seven arcs prior to this day. This dawn, after a few uneasy hours of sleep, he knew well enough just how his hatred manifested in his ugly features.

His ankle had recovered. It was never twisted in the first place, thankfully, and now he barely felt the needle pricking the joint in every step. Better, he thought. He could find who he was looking for, then leave. Furthermore, walking the busy cobblestone road provided an optimal terrain for advancement, even if the road was splattered with animal shite, and had considerable traffic. Maios traveled behind a wagon, whose stock was covered by a tarp. A mule drug it with the best of its ability, the driver and guard traveling on foot beside it.

The skies were overcast, but it was getting warmer. The birds sang and the grass was starting to rise from empty fields. Farmers and cattlemen were getting to work to both east and west of the river. It was impossible to know what kind of progress they had made in plowing their fields, but Maios suspected they had advanced a lot in their work. Many of them had begun in Cylus, making sure the fields were ready to be seeded as soon as the skies held life once again. Those that hadn’t bothered to do so went to the Dusk quarter, found some low-lives, paid them a silver a day, and had them do it. For three gold coins, they could have half an acre ready in a couple of days.

A squad of mounted knights rushed past the wagon, yelling for travelers to make way. The thundering hooves of armored horses crashed against the stone, advancing quickly towards the city. Some tavern must’ve had a sale on ale or wine. No other reason these bastards would be in such a hurry.

The owner of the wagon saw Maios traveling behind. The aged man must’ve not liked what he saw in Maios’ ugly features, because shortly after, the wagon guard politely asked Maios to get the fuck away least he was beaten to death.

Traveling by his lonesome now, fifty meters behind the wagon, Maios could’ve been mistaken for a donkey. No sightseeing, no enjoying Ashan, no nothing. He stared forward with a plain expression and total apathy. This was the face of a man that loathed the world and every creature within it.

Then they arrived at the Dust Quarter. If there was ever a place a man could be robbed, raped, and murdered, in whatever order, it was the slums. There were no official roads out out here. Every free space was a valid camping spot, but the tents were made of fabrics. The population, regardless of how ragged and beaten by life they were, had pushed human engineering to a new horizon. Anything could be used as material for a home. Wood was the most common, rotten and eaten by termites. Some made their homes of ragged sails ships no longer needed. The bold ones stole cobblestone from the roads and erected an unstable wall around the wall of another home. Why build four walls when you could build one? The creative ones found all sort of materials for their homes and stacked them together. Old furniture combined with rotting boles of trees, with roots, with leaves, and with fabrics to create strange, monolithic creations more worthy of an altar for a cult than a home.

Only here you could look into the face of men and see rats.

The population was scum, all of it. As Maios dodged both crowd and shacks, he got a got whiff of what the Dusk Quarter was a decade ago, and what still was to this day. A cesspool of whores, simpletons, and thieves. In two minutes time Maios saw more bare breasts than the richest merchant could see in a brothel. Most of those belonged to offering whores. Some belonged to women whose clothing was lacking crucial spots. Men walked with ugly mugs and unpleasant eyes, wondering just who or what to rob or rape this morn. Children chased dogs through the mud, looking for a meal. The lucky ones butchered them right in the dirty paths or in the poor privacy of their ramshackle homes.

Even in such a filthy place, there was life. Whores and dubious merchants advertised their goods. They all spoke with untamed voices that bordered yelling. New smells formed in this mire of poverty. All sorts of conversations could be heard, but just like their citizens, they were better left unspoken, unaddressed and utterly ignored.

Maios shuddered at the thought of Faldrun coming to cleanse this place with fire, and knowing all too well this act would be nothing but mercy.



(To be continued)
Last edited by Ptolemaios on Sun Apr 08, 2018 12:23 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 903
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Ptolemaios
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03. Dust to Glass

When he reached the gates of the city proper, Maios had to wait in line. People wanted within the walls, as if they’d find something better within than whatever was outside. Most of them were peasants, although some were merchants, traveling with their carts, with their wagons, or with their oversized backpacks. It was easy to tell which was which. The peasants looked tired and simple. The traders often had an armed guard around them, and donned fancy clothes. One of those merchants was the wagon encountered back at the road. The merchant was busy explaining something to the guard, somewhat agitated. The guard read through some papers, surely manifests of some sort, lost in thought. The stock had been unveiled as cut marble, ivory in color.

Maios killed the time by suffocating it with his cigarettes. The tobacco he had bought from a traveling merchant was called Black Turtle, although Maios called it Black Death. For a reason. To call it aromatic would be an insult. The only thing the tobacco shared with a turtle was, surely, the sensation of a 200kg turtle smashing your testes with every drag. But it was cheap, and Maios had gotten used to it. Those around him had now; they were already getting the black lung as if they mined for coal. Mining for coal would be safer.

Maios’ turn came after about half an hour. The routine was standard. The baby-faced guard asked him his name, his place of residence, and his reason for wanting into Rharne. ‘Visiting a friend’, Maios had answered. The guard ruffled through his bag, although most of his attention was captured by the bloody axe. It had some dry blood on it, drawn from one of the killed wolves. The guard did not know that. There was little he knew. Were it up for Maios to judge him, he would’ve guessed the guard and his thin moustache were in that stage in which yes, they knew they had a cock, they knew it had a purpose, but they couldn’t quite figure out what it was. They asked him about the blood. Maios told them he had found travel. They asked him about the route he took. Maios rolled his eyes and said he took the road.

Another guard joined in, a veteran by the looks of his bored, tipsy face. After some murmuring between them, and the outrage coming from the queue behind, they let him in. They did tie a white ribbon to Maios’ axe, their bullshit law, as if this piece of fabric could stop the axe from splitting a man. Then they let him go.

The Earth Quarter. What a shithole.

Few would’ve made such remark after seeing the Dusk Quarter. Hells, the sight of a proper street or the lack of hanging genitalia was a grandiose improvement. The place was swarming with guards. They there mostly for the gate mind you, but it nonetheless felt like a secure place. The crowd within the quarter were hardworking as much as drunks could be. You only had to squint to see how almost everyone carried a flask with them, a wineskin, or a bottle. That was only in the belt. Only Illaren could know just how much booze they carried in their stomachs. Nevertheless, they had found a use for themselves. The main road that followed the gates within the city were littered with market stands. Once upon a time, this was a forbidden practice. However, the will of the people, so eager to ascend the mountain of both Rharne and wealth, had changed the laws. As long as the road was two wagons of width, the guards wouldn’t interfere.

The stands respected this, but those gathered around them did not. Poor were the souls trying to traverse this ocean of bodies. Poorer were those that traversed it and expected to not have a headache from the turmoil. All sorts of merchandise was for sale, and the tenders made sure to tell you as loud as they could. Repeat it a hundred times to cover for the length of the road, then double it to account for the tenders on the other side. Then add in the crowd, three per stand - a low number compared to the current number. Cylus had kept them hidden, but now that Ashan was here, the yokels came out to spend coin.

Maios, aware of the danger, placed his coin purse within his pants beside his biological currency. Were he more patient, he would’ve chosen to take a detour to avoid the masses. They weren’t against cutting a hole into your backpack and looting whatever they found inside. He knew, because he had done it in the past. But, in all honesty, he couldn’t be fucked to do so. There was something for in him in this city; not a friend, not a foe. It was an objective, a next step in a stairwell.

Whether this stairwell went up or down, he didn’t know. He didn’t care.
word count: 848
User avatar
Ptolemaios
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Posts: 28
Joined: Sun Apr 01, 2018 12:34 pm
Race: Human
Profession: Labourer
Renown: 0
Character Sheet
Wealth Tier: Tier 1

Milestones

Miscellaneous

03. Dust to Glass

No guards stopped those venturing into the Glass Quarter. They should’ve. When ugly, smelly, and ragged men like Ptolemaios stepped foot into such a polished place, it was nothing short of an invasion. Those venturing further up the mountain often belonged in the kennels below this quarter. Their filth tainted the stone, the air, and the glass. At the very least, they could be easily discovered by sight. Peasants donned filthy clothes. Going above jute or cotton was rare.Clearer colors were even rarer. Those luxuries were reserved to the denizens of the Sky Quarter. They had the coin and the status to don only the finest threads, and to discard them as easy as they came.

There was another perk only present in those with coin. They did not hurry anywhere. They lived life in slow motion. Only here you could witness a man or a woman walking through a botanical garden with steps proper of an infant. Perhaps this wasn’t the case for all of them. Perhaps their lives took a faster rhythm when they were in the privacy of their own manors. Maios couldn’t know; he had never found wealth in this life. Except when it was taken.

Sourly as he was, Maios advanced through the wide and open cobblestone streets with his usual haste. Nobody would guess his age by the cadence of his stride.

Maios had a tough time orientating. The quarter… No. The city had changed dramatically in all the arcs he had spent in the village. The change was as drastic as when he was released from prison. Mistral Village had been a prison of a different kind, a much different kind, but it was a prison nonetheless. It had been. It was? He would revisit his thoughts on the village later. For now, with squinted eyes, Maios worked to make sense of the district.

Even when lost, Maios advanced quickly. His fast pace could’ve had his walking mistaken for a jog. His eyes darted, here and there, looking for a particular house. He remembered it well; a house of white stone, three stories high, luxurious gardens in the front and a portion of land behind it. A well was twenty paces to the east. To the right had been a brothel popular to every rod looking for a lightning to strike their ass; The White Swallow. Even with those pointers, and with the open-minded nature of most Rharnians, never in his life would Maios ask for directions towards a rods-only establishment.

It took him half an hour, but he finally stood in front of it. It was bigger than he remembered. It was prettier. How ironic; he had forgotten the house he had once owned. But he had found it nonetheless, and it was time to meet an old friend.
word count: 474
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