Date: 3rd of Cylus, 717th Arc
The tree at Warrick's Watch stood at the gates of the city, it's leaves defrocked quite a few trials ago by the cold. Since then, pilgrims had seen to it that the leaves were swept up, and disposed of in a respectful manner. Woe always made a point to visit the Watch on the way back from whatever business he'd been up to on a day. He wrapped his meager cloak around him, wrapping his common clothing an that one extra layer, for all the good it did.
As the ex-slave stood by the inscription, his breath frosting on the air. ‘May all who pass this tree know true joy and see it grow.’ He idly wondered if Low-town was ever a nice place to live, for that inscription to hold any meaning that wouldn't be taken as inappropriate. He supposed things couldn't get any worse for those who regularly passed by the tree, Irony, how clever of the old King.
Meanwhile, the guards by the gate saw to it that the tree was protected, while pilgrims, monks, and priests alike did what they could to care for it during the day. They were in the dead of the Rebirth Cycle, and so all they could really do for the tree was pray that it saw sunlight soon.
Woe stayed there for a few moments, and then moved onward, taking the quick path through the side alleys of Low-town. There were all the ordinary assorted beggars, buskers, and assorted human filth littering the streets as yet another crawled along in the form of Woe. All the normal sounds of life in the slums were around him. Woe's own house wasn't far from Warrick's Watch, a convenient distance from the entrance to the gate. It was then that he heard a high-pitched yell. Normally, a cry of distress wasn't unheard of in this area. It was just something one got used to living in such a cramped space with other people. However, this was followed by a chorus of footfalls, in pursuit of the one doing the crying. Woe unhooked his scourge, readying himself in case he had to defend his home.
Soon enough the leading footfalls gave way to the appearance of a young man, a boy really, who was swiftly outpacing a group of ruffians in hot pursuit. There were many such youth gangs in this part of the city. Woe didn't bother with them as a usual course. However, they were dangerously close to the shack he called a home, and he didn't want to give ground to this sort of thing occurring on a usual basis.
So as the young man ran past, Woe let him, and then put his foot in the way of the leading ruffian, tripping him up. Scourging the little urchin struck Woe would've seemed excessive, so he didn't immediately react when the the lead boy jumped energetically to his feet. The gang then turned their attention to the ex-slave, cornering him against his house and taking away his range of attack before he could think to go on the offensive. He tried to push them away, to drive them forward as he attempted escape. Their fists made it difficult, not to mention the ankle that tripped him up. Their yelling and laughing echoed through the night as they beat and kicked him.
There was no help coming, as bit by bit Woe got ground into the street by the pack of wild urchins and juveniles. He took their punches, some to the guts, some to the face, many more to sensitive areas. Through it all, he endured their attacks without retaliating for a solid five bits.
It seemed, after those five bits their own energy levels began lagging behind. THeir blows came softer, but no less painful for falling on his existing bruises. Their kicks were half hearted.
It was then that Woe saw his chance to escape their abuse. He squared himself, lifting an arm up to form a sort of block against their attacks as he began getting up. This done, he threw himself forward, plowing into the urchins and past them.
Thus he made his way free, kicking their legs as they tried to trip him up, and strengthening his every movement so he would not be stopped. Once he hit the streets, he was off running. Every footfall made his wounds scream in pain, every vibration that wound its way up his legs as his feet hit the ground.
He wound his way through the streets, cutting corners as swiftly as possible to try and elude their pursuit. He shot from alleyway to alleyway, trying to make his turns as unpredictable and perhaps as unintuitive as possible, so that no one would think to follow his escape route. He'd worked out escape routes, having lived in Lowtown with all the gangs and ruffians who populated it. Woe had never been a great fighter, although he had a toughness that belied his thin frame.
His latest turn, as he rounded another corner, took him down to a dead end, unfortunately, at the end of an alleyway. There was a tall wall at the end of it, which blocked his way, and he hadn't the skill to climb, much less in his condition.
He could hear their voices on the air, shouting directions at each other. It seemed like they were splitting up.
He pushed himself up against the wall of a nearby tenement. There, he remained perfectly still so as to disappear into the shadow of the alleyway. There, he more or less melted his profile into the side of the building he was propped up against.
The urchins' voices became more distant with every passing moment. Their shouts fading into the distant until he couldn't hear them at all. After a few bits of waiting, nearly holding his breath, he gave a sigh to the Cylus night air. It would be a hell of a time on his birthday, not that he even celebrated such frivolity.
Then, and only then, did he allow himself to curl over, his pain catching up to his adrenaline finally. He breathed in and out, trying to let the air get to his lungs, but it only made the pain worse. Still, as he waited for the voices to either return or fade entirely, he forced himself to take those deep breaths, believing that the cold air would help.
He grazed his wounds with his hands, wincing in pain as he felt the welts rising from his flesh. There was a good deal of bruising to be sure, but he didn't believe he'd broken any bones. The urchins didn't have the strength, although they certainly gave it their best try.
He slinked out of that alleyway, keeping a low profile as much as one practically crawling through the streets could do. He kept his eyes peeled for other ne'erdowells and villains who might see his weakness and prey upon it for kicks.
His crawl through Lowtown took him all the way back to his small home, where he could finally rest. And that's what he did, after cleaning his wounds and making sure they were free of dirt, sand, and other kinds of debris.
Then, he collapsed into his straw, and fell into a deep sleep.
When he awoke, it was with a slight cold. Sneezing and coughing, he cursed as mucous was brought up through his nose, wiping it off with his dirty old shirt.
He put some coals into the fire at the center of his cottage, and waited for them to take to the flame. With a bit of snow gathered from outside, he placed it in a small pot, and hung it over the growing fire. He had some tea in the pantry, that might help with the growing illness.
