Post by Whistler (Retired) on Jul 4, 2020 17:39:07 GMT
The journey was long. It was a little cramped and, obviously, over open sea which was awful but he'd definitely slept in worse places. There was plenty of food to go around as well, so he only broke into the stores once to to make sure he had extra. ("Never eat the last of your food, only if it's about to bad. Always have extra.") He kept to himself, pretended to sleep during the day and didn't steal from any of the other passengers. ("Too risky. No way out if you get caught.")
He spent a night in the first port they arrived in. The streets were ripe with people and opportunity but something was off. There were plenty of runners like him but many of them seemed to be working for someone. ("Don't get involved. Don't owe anyone anything. Stay out of trouble. Stay out of sight.") He found some tunnels that seemed good for sleeping in but the other runners told him not to go in because they were filled with people's shit. Sewers, they called them. Very strange. He sat in a seedy tavern for a bit during the evening and listened. There was another city further west, on a hill. He slept in an alley and left the next morning.
This place seemed more promising. It smelled right, and it was further away from the sea, so that was a plus. More forest and still full of opportunity. Barely any runners though. He spent a good two hours at twilight trying to find someone who could tell him something. This was usually a bad sign and he was about to give up on this new city as well when he saw a pair of dirty feet jog past his hiding place.
Apparently most of the runners had been taken in by an orphanage, a good one. The Refuge they called it. He was too old to stay there, probably. (By their standards at least.) But he pulled on the thread just to see where it lead.
In the north side of the city he found a large building, clearly lived in but oddly silent. He walked around it a few times until he found what had to be the back door of the kitchens. ("There's always a back door and it probably leads to kitchens. Quick in, quick out, food for days.") He hid, and waited. Eventually, there was a number of heavy clicks from the door and a man in a dirty apron came out. The man emptied a bucket on the ground to the side of the stairs and stopped for a moment, looking around. ("If you were moving, keep moving. If you were still, keep still.") He went back inside and Whistler was just about to go for the scraps that had been thrown out when the door opened again. Now the man was holding a bundle, wrapped in cloth.
"Leave that, lad," he said, in fluent Elvish. Whistler blinked. The man's ears were missing, chopped off or something, but they must've been pointed before they came off.
"It'll make you sick," he continued, still in Elvish. "It's all gone bad. Take this instead."
The man sat down on the steps by the door and held the bundle out towards where Whistler was hiding. It had been good hiding place, or so he'd thought, but the man clearly knew he was there. Carefully, slowly at first and then very quickly, Whistler darted out and grabbed the bundle. ("Enough for days, eat the things that will go bad first, save the rest.")
The man on the steps looked him up and down and Whistler thought of hiding himself in the dark but it had been a long time since someone spoke his language to him. He stayed. The man sighed, and spoke again.
"The Refuge'll think you're too old, but I assume you know that already. Can you wield whatever that blade is supposed to be?"
He points to where the hilt of a cloth-wrapped sword is poking out from in between Whistler's many layers. Whistler blinks and nods.
"Alright. Come by again in the morning and we'll see what we can do." He stands up and dusts his hands on his apron. "Get you cleaned up at the very least," he mutters. Whistler narrows his eyes suspiciously. The man seems unfazed by this.
"Until tomorrow. There'll be a large half-orc lad up on the roof from sunrise and onwards. Tell him Grits sent you."
Whistler cocks his head to the side. Looks down at the food in his hands and back up at.. Grits? He nods.
"Good. Stay out of trouble until then, and don't go stealing. Boss wouldn't like it."
With that, he goes back inside and closes the heavy door. Whistler waits and listens to the deadbolt sliding, counts the number of locks clicking. When nothing else happens he darts back into the shadows, disappearing entirely, and waits for sunrise.
He spent a night in the first port they arrived in. The streets were ripe with people and opportunity but something was off. There were plenty of runners like him but many of them seemed to be working for someone. ("Don't get involved. Don't owe anyone anything. Stay out of trouble. Stay out of sight.") He found some tunnels that seemed good for sleeping in but the other runners told him not to go in because they were filled with people's shit. Sewers, they called them. Very strange. He sat in a seedy tavern for a bit during the evening and listened. There was another city further west, on a hill. He slept in an alley and left the next morning.
This place seemed more promising. It smelled right, and it was further away from the sea, so that was a plus. More forest and still full of opportunity. Barely any runners though. He spent a good two hours at twilight trying to find someone who could tell him something. This was usually a bad sign and he was about to give up on this new city as well when he saw a pair of dirty feet jog past his hiding place.
Apparently most of the runners had been taken in by an orphanage, a good one. The Refuge they called it. He was too old to stay there, probably. (By their standards at least.) But he pulled on the thread just to see where it lead.
In the north side of the city he found a large building, clearly lived in but oddly silent. He walked around it a few times until he found what had to be the back door of the kitchens. ("There's always a back door and it probably leads to kitchens. Quick in, quick out, food for days.") He hid, and waited. Eventually, there was a number of heavy clicks from the door and a man in a dirty apron came out. The man emptied a bucket on the ground to the side of the stairs and stopped for a moment, looking around. ("If you were moving, keep moving. If you were still, keep still.") He went back inside and Whistler was just about to go for the scraps that had been thrown out when the door opened again. Now the man was holding a bundle, wrapped in cloth.
"Leave that, lad," he said, in fluent Elvish. Whistler blinked. The man's ears were missing, chopped off or something, but they must've been pointed before they came off.
"It'll make you sick," he continued, still in Elvish. "It's all gone bad. Take this instead."
The man sat down on the steps by the door and held the bundle out towards where Whistler was hiding. It had been good hiding place, or so he'd thought, but the man clearly knew he was there. Carefully, slowly at first and then very quickly, Whistler darted out and grabbed the bundle. ("Enough for days, eat the things that will go bad first, save the rest.")
The man on the steps looked him up and down and Whistler thought of hiding himself in the dark but it had been a long time since someone spoke his language to him. He stayed. The man sighed, and spoke again.
"The Refuge'll think you're too old, but I assume you know that already. Can you wield whatever that blade is supposed to be?"
He points to where the hilt of a cloth-wrapped sword is poking out from in between Whistler's many layers. Whistler blinks and nods.
"Alright. Come by again in the morning and we'll see what we can do." He stands up and dusts his hands on his apron. "Get you cleaned up at the very least," he mutters. Whistler narrows his eyes suspiciously. The man seems unfazed by this.
"Until tomorrow. There'll be a large half-orc lad up on the roof from sunrise and onwards. Tell him Grits sent you."
Whistler cocks his head to the side. Looks down at the food in his hands and back up at.. Grits? He nods.
"Good. Stay out of trouble until then, and don't go stealing. Boss wouldn't like it."
With that, he goes back inside and closes the heavy door. Whistler waits and listens to the deadbolt sliding, counts the number of locks clicking. When nothing else happens he darts back into the shadows, disappearing entirely, and waits for sunrise.
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