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)
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)