Sunday Morning, Fireseek 2, 591 Common Year

Gar surveys the city with his eyes; then cocks his head and with a wink at Fingol says, “Let’s go explore Westkeep!”

As they pass by the gate, Fingol finds out from a guard that a chandler shop with the needed supplies can be found down at the riverfront, if they just follow the Processional to the end and turn left.

Walking down the street with Sir Fingol, Gar reflects on his empty pockets. No gold. Will I have enough food for the trip into the marsh? Will the Prince provide supplies? Will the Prince give us some upfront gold pieces for supplies? Maybe – maybe not. Maybe I should snag someone’s purse when jostling through the crowd? No, no, that would be wrong… but?

Feeling a little uneasy and in a world of hunger, Gar’s thoughts and agitation move personally southward as he glances about for objects of his desire, fire and fuel for his midnight imaginings. If I’m going to be here a few days, it would be nice to get a little… ah, but that takes gold!

Reaching his left hand into his pantaloon pocket while walking down the street, he hears a familiar jingle jangle when he squeezes a leather pouch. Oh, I do have some money! Maybe I can get into trouble yet. After giving himself a happy squeeze, he absentmindedly fondles the little Green Man hanging around his neck.

The Processional that leads from the main gate of the keep to the levee-docks is the widest avenue of Westkeep, a whole 25 feet across. In fact, it is one of the only two avenues in the city, the other being the Riverway that runs along the docks. Like the Riverway, the Processional is paved with cobblestones, and some little effort seems to have been put into maintaining it. Gutters run along its sides with little bridges over them so that one can enter the shops or take cover under the awnings. Herds of pigs and goats root through the muck and garbage as they do throughout the city. Dark brown peasants, probably Olman tribesmen, can occasionally be seen sweeping away dung and carting away wheelbarrows full of muck that they take to the fields outside the city. The stench of the city is appalling, though the Processional is cleaner and better maintained than most areas.

As Fingol and Gar walk down towards the riverfront, they pass the temples and guildhalls of Westkeep that cluster nearest to the keep. The guildhalls on the left are large stone buildings fronted by signs indicating which guild they are: anvils for the blacksmiths, barrel hoops for the coopers, pies for the bakers, an alembic for the alchemists, a diamond ring for the jewelers, and a picture of scales weighted with coins for the merchant guilds. They notice one block that is nothing but charred rubble. There is nothing left to indicate what guildhall once stood there. Beyond the guildhalls are the homes of the wealthy or at least well off. Though there seem to be gaps and ruins that way too.

On the right side of the Processional across from the guildhalls are the temples, shrines, and small businesses that cater to them, as well as the residences of the priests and dormitories of their acolytes. The most impressive is the ornate and gilded cathedral of Xerbo, a Suloise god of the seas who is, more often than not, worshipped as the patron of those who drive hard bargains. His devotees do not encourage charity, and so no beggars are to be found in the vicinity of the temple. They do see some wealthy burghers with rolls of silk and other goods entering the temple. Most likely they are making an offering of a share of their cargo to the god that they know will grant prosperity to their endeavors for a share of the take. There are also other lesser temples and shrines, but they notice that many seem abandoned and boarded up, while others seem severely neglected. One temple’s doors seem to have been busted open with a battering ram. From the lightning bolt carved over the broken doors they can see that it must have belonged to Heironeous. Now only sullen eyed Olman refugees inhabit it, the priests and paladins having returned to the palace in disgrace. There is also a mission to St. Cuthbert. Several of its stern devotees – thumping their clubs against their open left palms – eye passersby warily. The last of the temples is Norebo’s Church of the Big Gamble, a boisterous hall of rowdies, thugs, rogues, trollops, strumpets, pimps and panderers, and even some more respectable citizens with time and money to waste, that presides over the market square. Clouds of pipe-weed, the clattering of the craps, the click clack of tiles, and occasional cries of “Huzzah” pour out into the streets through its wide open doors into the marketplace.

The marketplace is an open-air bazaar full of tents, booths, and animal pens, though permanent shops and residences line the square, including the watch post. It is full of people and animals and their cries and hubbub and the hawking of wares. It is not as lively as might be expected from a city of this size, but it is in the middle of “winter” and many things have grown hard to come by since the city can no longer trade with the other cities, towns, and villages of the Hold of the Sea Princes, occupied as they are by the Scarlet Brotherhood or rival bands of revolutionaries. Still it is a marketplace. Here a shoemaker calls out, “Roll on up for my price is down!” There a baker cries, “Come on in for the best in town!” A wine-seller waves and indicates his casks, “Take your pick of the finest wine!” A cluster of people surround a small pen, one ruffian holds up a rooster to the crowd saying, “Lay your bets on this bird of mine!” A relatively well-dressed man sidles up followed by a gaggle of young women and even a couple of young men whom he gestures to and says, “Name your price I got everything.” A passing sweetmeat vendor yells, “Come and buy it’s all going fast!” A moneychanger at his booth grins and says, “Borrow cash on the finest terms!” A leatherworker indicates his wares and cries, “Hurry now while stocks still last!” Things quiet down for a bit as a squad of soldiers in leather armor and the red livery of Keoland pass by. The locals’ reaction ranges from resentful to wary to indifferent, but as soon as they are gone the hustling begins again in earnest.

Amidst all this, a boy, maybe no more than twelve, with golden hair and light blue eyes suddenly steps before them. He is dressed in rags and he holds his hands out to Fingol. “Please good sirs, alms for the poor. May the blessings of the gods be upon you for it.”

“Well young man,” replies Fingol, “I’ve given a great deal to the followers of Heironeous. Surely they are doing all they can for you?”

“Uh, Heironeous, sir? You mean the followers of the Archpaladin? They’re kindly enough, good sir, and a damn sight better than the Scarlet Brotherhood – excuse my language good sir. They talk about justice and mercy, but they’re holed up in the keep. Maybe they’re afraid to help us. It can be rough out here good sir. But you’re here, and you can help! Please sir, I have a baby sister at home good sir.” He seems sincere enough to Fingol, but Gar can tell from the urchin’s shifty expression that this last is an out and out lie. The urchin’s reaction to the question about Heironeous seemed sincere enough though.

“Holed up in the keep?” asks Fingol. “I see they had trouble with the healing clinic, but don’t they try to feed folks who need it?”

The boys gives Fingol a very puzzled look, “No, not that I ever heard of. Should they be? I don’t really know the teachings of Heironeous that well, sorry to say good sir.”

Fingol looks around for a food vendor and then leads the boy over to a pastry maker where he can buy the boy some meat pies to take home to his sister. The merchant asks for five silver hawks for each pie.

“Five hawks! Hey, I can see paying a little extra for the entrancing ambiance, but you’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Times are hard good sir. It’s the middle of winter and many of the farms and villages were despoiled when the Scarlet Brotherhood ruled here. Curse their names!” With this he spits on the ground to emphasize his point. “I have a family to feed myself now, y’know. Anyway, you won’t find any better than my pasties in this town.”

“Surely things are getting better with Prince Prospero in charge!”

“Feh, those idle dreamers up in the palace? Sure the Prince and his High and Mighties are a sight better than the Brotherhood, but who wouldn’t be? I suppose they’ve tried, but all their swords, shields, and paltry spells won’t rid this town of its blight or put bread and rice on our tables. Their own supply wagons can barely make it across the marshes as it is, assuming their King Skotti even sends any. They’ll be starving with us before long I don’t doubt.”

“Anyway, I’ll give you eight hawks for the lot and curse your name for it.”

“Ah curse yourself. You sound like one of those High and Mighties your very own self. Don’t tell me you don’t have the wherewithal to give me an honest price. But I’ll tell you what, seeing as how you’re trying to provide for the young one there, you can take four for twelve hawks.”

Fingol gives him a gold eagle, saying, “Well, I’m not out to feed an army.”

“Not yet you’re not.” Says the merchant wryly as he takes the gold piece, “And that’ll be two more silver as well good sir.”

Gar, shaking his head with a half smile on his face says to the baker, “You really like to squeeze a man’s pouch for his good deeds, good sir. Surely you should give us ten pies for the gold eagle. Give the boy his four pies and count your blessings and profit.”

The merchant considers Gar, and seeing from his Green Man pendant that he must be a priest says begrudgingly, “Very well, then. Seeing as how you are a priest and your friend here is doing a charitable deed. Is that Obad-Hai then? Let it be in part my offering in the name of Obad-Hai.” He hands over the pastries to the eager young boy, who then darts away with a “Thank you good sirs.”

“And thank you, good sir, in the name of Obad-Hai.” Gar fondles his little Green Man.

It’s only then that Fingol and Gar notice the dozen or perhaps two dozen other youngsters in rags who emerge from the crowds. Some fair, some olive skinned; but dark Olman refugees and/or ex-slaves make up the greater majority of them who descend upon them with their hands out, tugging on their clothes, and beseeching them for alms or food. In the distance they catch sight of a young man, a short skinny boy really, wearing dark leathers. His hair has been shaved away from the sides, leaving a raven black spiky crest down the middle. A little monkey squats on his shoulder and leers obscenely at them. The boy shakes his head at them and with a sneer disappears into the crowd leaving Fingol and Gar in the midst of a sea of desperate urchins.

“Did you see the boy with the monkey? Let’s go that way.” Rubbing his little Green Man for a few seconds while mumbling his magic mantra, Gar flicks his hand in the direction where monkey boy disappeared and says, “May Obad-Hai grant me sanctuary! Follow me now, Sir Fingol, if you can.” Gar easily slips past the clamoring urchins but the “monkey boy” is nowhere in sight. He has melted into the crowds.

Fingol, clutching his belt pouch, tries to wade through the mob of urchins, who have all mysteriously turned their attention to him ignoring Gar. “Gar, I think we’d best go back. We’re not going to get anything done now.”

Gar and the beleaguered Fingol make it back to the edge of the market and at that point the urchins begins to disperse with some final whining, cajoling, and pleading. Despite all the jostling and sleeve tugging, Fingol was able to keep a good grasp on his belt pouch, and escapes their clutches without being robbed. Gar and Fingol are finally free to return to the keep.

Fingol turns to Gar and says, “You’re going to have to keep me out of trouble in the future. And teach me that trick of turning invisible to the urchins! That would have been quite handy. Anyway, we have to come back tomorrow. I have to take a look inside that clinic.” By clinic, Fingol indicates the Heironean mission with the broken doors, now filled with sullen eyed Olman refugees.

Laughing out loud Gar says, “As if it is even possible for anyone to keep you out of trouble from your good deeds! You will need to turn your attention to the gods first, before you can be invisible to mankind.” Gar slaps Fingol’s back in good humor, “And sure, I’ll go with you into the old Heironean mission tomorrow. I suppose we should head over to the drill grounds now like we promised. I want to see the half-elf sorcerer of theirs too.”

“Something makes me think that we already have. We’ll know for sure when we hit the practice grounds. Off we go then.”

Fingol heads back to his room to pick up his weapons and put on his armor. They meet again on the parade ground of the keep, where Sir Gorman sees them and greets them heartily. “I’m glad to see you two. I’d like you two to work with the Sgt. Apone’s squad. They’re just over here.” And so Sir Gorman leads Fingol and Gar over to Sgt. Apone’s squad just as he is about to lead them in marching up and down the square.