Leeson
City of Deliar inside the Boot Buckle
The sounds of soft hammering echoed in a dusty old forge. Aside from the lights that could shine through the faded storefront windows, it was dark, sans for the embers that warmed the bed of a forge. Beside the forge was a young man, hamming into shape a shovel's head. This one would go for seventy-five silvers; if he could get at least five more gold denars, he'd have enough money to pay off the store for this month. If he could finish these orders of shovels, he'd get at least two gold denars. And that's often how Leeson's life went; surviving from one tax day to the next, struggling to make ends meet. If someone broke into his forge right now, the only thing worth taking would be his hammer, tongs, and maybe some furniture. Before they used to put on display everything and anything they could make; axes, hammers, trowels, barrel bands, door locks, even some swords. But as Leeson began to lose more and more business, he had to sell many of his show pieces to the government. And now all he has to give is the forge itself.
Leeson's life at the forge was a complicated one. Honestly, he'd much rather be rid of it. His father would be turning over his grave to know that they lost it, but Leeson just couldn't find it within himself to settle down like this. Not without moving next towards the nearest tavern so that he could drown his sorrows away at the end of each hour. But again, it's his family's forge; they've kept it for many generations now, and he'll be damned if he simply hands it over to them. It was a very love-hate relationship, like how one would feel that they should love their father for simply being their father, but hate the man due to their overbearing personality. Leeson is reminded of a turn used by one of his friends, who raises hounds: Imprinting. Children do it at a young age so that they know who their guardians were and who they should go to in their time of need. Well, Leeson lost his a while back, and has been lost ever since.
His internal ramblings were interrupted when he heard knocking at his door. Having just finished up his last shovel the young smith got up from his spot and went to answer it. Opening the door he had expected to see someone of his height, but instead it was a small child. He recognized him as the youngest child of a forester. "S-sir, I need your help. I can't get inside my house!" Leeson than remembered who this child belonged to. A fairly rich forester, whom had placed an order to have a lock built into their main entrance. That made a pretty penny for Leeson, 10 gold denars. But it was unlikely that this child had any money to purchase his service. Grabbing his hat, staff, rope, and tucking his dagger underneath his robe, Leeson motioned for the child to lead.
Walking through lower Deliar was a familiar scene for Leeson. It was both parts pitiful and beautiful; the walls and buildings of Deliar were made by the skilled and caring hands of artisans many years ago, who's handiwork still outshine the sun itself even to this day. But that's from inside the walls; outside of it, in the commoner district, it was a little less pleasing. At best, it's cramp and has a strange stench. At worse, it may be the breeding ground for a plague and you could not see the street underneath the trash and litter. Usually however, it's simply not as clean or immaculate as within the city. It had it's charms of course; though hardly everyone in the lower districts could be called artist, they were quite capable of getting by without all the amenities provided like in the city. The fact that it wasn't suffering show to Leeson that it was not so bad. At least people would have an incentive to buy locks down here.
Leeson and the child reached the door of his home. Amongst the houses in the lower districts, this one was huge; two stories, thatched roof, solid stone walls, a few windows. The chimney shooting out from the side foretold that there is a fireplace or at even an oven within. And more importantly, a grand oaken door with a lock mechanism. Leeson got onto one knee and checked the device, but immediately noticed nothing was wrong with it. Aside from a few scratches that might have come from someone missing the keyhole. Curious, Lesson asked the child to open the door. But the child could not. Than it dawned to him why the kid couldn't open the door.
"Does not have a key." Well, this is a bit of a predicament. On one hand, he could still open the door using some improvised tools. But what sort of an impression would that leave on the child? And what if someone mistook him for a burglar? So many questions, and Leeson didn't answer any of them. He looked around for a couple of twigs and got to work.
It took him about ten minutes but Leeson managed to get the door open on his first try. The child was giddy to be back in his home and ran inside, leaving Leeson outside to wonder if he should charge the kid for making him come all this way for him. He decided not to however and was about to leave before the boy walked out of the house with a bucket. Inside of it was a large collection of Oyster Mushrooms, Grande Wormwood, Green Anise, and Sweet Fennel. Or to Leeson, booze and a snack. Thanking the child for the payment, Leeson walked towards a tavern in hopes that he could get the barkeep there to make him some alcohol with this stuff, and to make stew for him using the mushrooms. The streets were busy and the tavern Leeson was a regular at was busy, but that was nothing unusual. Quite the opposite in fact. Leeson worked his way towards the counter until he found himself standing next to a rather handsome young man, though Leeson paid him no mind. The barkeep handed the young man a drink before he noticed Leeson and his bucket.
"I'll drink whatever you can make from this, and a stew from the mushrooms, if you'll please."
---
Lucilia Tinath
City of Hials patrolling the city
The snow had piled on thick thanks to the many days of winter here in Hials. It was nothing the street cleaners couldn't clear out within a week, and right now the snow wasn't so heavy that one could not simply walk through it. Lucilia certainly didn't need to, as she had Benedictus who allowed her to sit tall above the ground. In her hands was the tool of her trade, the mark of her station: Carnifex. It has butchered the likes of many barbarians, and hopefully she won't need to turn it on the people of Hials either. Even though it has been more than a month since it had last drawn blood, Lucilia kept her weapon sharpened and ready for any situation. But just because she was ready for trouble, doesn't mean that she was going to start any. Lucilia made sure to patrol every part of the city she could, typically the parts of the city that didn't have guards. The places of nobility didn't need her; they had entire legions at their beck and call. No, she was around the much more common parts of the city, where you'd find street vendors trying to sell aged vegetables, were beggars would nip at your heels for charity, and where knives were used to cut purses and hopefully not throats.
A breath of hot air escaped through the bottom of Lucilia's helmet. Even though she was here to rest and relax away from the horrors of war, she was always on edge. Anyone could be an enemy; everyone looked like a barbarian. Sure, they would tell you tales of how the men of the north dressed themselves in animal furs and had wild hair and so forth, but being there personally, a lot of those "Barbarians" wouldn't look out of place even here. Sure, some do have tribal markings and a particular style of dress, but Lucilia would hardly call it "Barbaric". Different was more accurate. The only thing that made the barbarians different than the people down here is that they weren't trying to kill Lucilia, but than again it's not as though she meets them under good circumstances. It should be no surprise that the barbarians would want to kill her if she came to them armed to the teeth and looking for war. But alas, regardless of her thoughts on them, they were still her enemies. If they could be reasoned with, they would have already. War was not enjoyable for anyone, at least not everyone as a whole. And her years spent warring still hasn't shaken her off the mindset that at any moment, violence would break out in the streets and Lucilia would need to begin cutting down anyone who so much as shot a vicious look at her.
Taking her horse down the a small post within the fortress, Lucilia resigned herself to quietly making her rounds while keeping a constant, vigilant eye on her surroundings.
