Glade 15, 122
The seagulls were loud, squawking, seemingly in celebration at the arrival of a small river sloop. It was nondescript, no different than the hundreds that came into Gel’Grandel regularly. It came with the flow of the Kaven River, plain sails, no adornment. A simple transport vessel, not even named. Simply numbered. Probably part of a fleet that dominated that corner of the market. A pair of green eyes watched as the ship passed beneath the large bridges, impressive feats of engineering.
His nose scrunched at the stench of smog here. A bit of a scowl grew on his unshaven face. It smelled of the smelters at the camp. Filthy. As they came out the other side of the bridge, he could hear the horns of the many drivers up on it. Loud. Gel’Grandel, the painted whore of the Imperium, a shithole dressed up as a paradise for the influential and affluent.
Still, loud and dirty worked for the man. It let many things go unnoticed. Just as no one noticed as he turned up his collar, tightening the strap of his rucksack, his boots tapping lightly as he descended the gangplank onto the docks. This was not an international vessel, so there were no customs involved. Not even a name taker here. Not that it mattered, with Morin’s new name.
A small family, a mother with her two children were nearby. Morin listened as she asked a dockworker about how to get to the South Side. The worker was very helpful, openly leering down the woman’s blouse, causing her to shift uncomfortably. He made sure she understood the directions he was giving. Crossing the bridge into Trashtown would not be good for a pretty, young mother such as she. It was very dangerous there, run by gangs, the law having nearly no real presence there, other than to collect bribes.
A small herd seemed to form, to take the sidewalk from the dock, to head further into the city. Morin moved into join them, seemingly another body to find safety in numbers. Up a small hill, the new arrivals trundled, seeing the cars race by on the road ahead. Cresting the hill, the group found the streets to be packed with people, racing on foot, by bike and car, all in a hurry, none seemingly minding the world around them. Focused.
Eventually the group found a waiting point for the trolleys, crowding in so as to not be run over by the fast paced city natives. Morin moved in behind the mother. He nudged in closer, disguising the action as crowding by the people waiting on the trolley, his front pressing up against her back. He could feel her tense up, uncomfortable by the physical contact. She shifted to try and find some space, but it was to no avail. All she ended up doing was worsening her own embarrassment it seemed.
A trolly honked as it came around a corner, and everyone in the group looked up towards it. As they did, Morin’s hand slid forward, two fingers snaking into the mother’s large travel purse, riding on her hip. A quick dip in, feeling sheets of paper. He closed them around and slowly began to snake them out while everyone was distracted. But the trolley was faster than he’d expected, arriving before Morin had his prize. He needed a bit more time. Time to take a risk.
He stepped back, a half step, a half step over, from the mother. He saw her shoulders relax just a bit, his hand still in her purse. The side step covered the visual of his arm for the moment, and his hand went out, grasping her left buttcheek, giving it a firm squeeze. The woman startled, yelping, turning to her left to look at her assailant. As she did, Morin slipped the papers out, turning to his right. A few of the papers dropped to the ground, slipping into the road to be stepped on and forgotten. The mother was glaring at the man that had been standing off to her left, turning away in outrage and shame, ushering her children onto the trolly.
As she did, Morin was already walking away, tucking the bank notes into the inner pocket of his dirty jacket. He had no desire to go to the South Side. He was walking down the streets, his green eyes watching everyone, making his way to the bridge the ship had passed under earlier. He climbed the metallic stairs, and stepped onto the bridge. He was still amazed at just how busy this city was. He noticed that most of the vehicles up here were carrying cargo, to and from Trashtown it seemed.
Interesting.
Morin walked along, wondering if this new part of the city was as bad as that dock worker had made out to be. It seemed to have plenty of business. But he did see that the vehicles here were not in the same condition as those he’d seen just a bit ago. Rust was more common, wooden slats for the trucks. A lot more bikes and mopeds. The wealth difference was obvious at least.
Reaching the other side of the bridge, he paused at the top of the stairs here, looking down at Trashtown. Broken and boarded up windows everywhere. Stores with metal bars over the fronts of them. Corners were either dominated by people in matching clothes, smoking, or hookers, strutting about in brightly colored and revealing clothing, cat calling at the passersby. Those in the matching clothes must be the gangs the dock worker had mentioned.
From his vantage, he could see that the roads divided up the neighborhoods largely into blocks, though it seemed to form an arc. The city expanded out in circles, even here. As Morin started down the cast iron stairs, he began slipping back into the mentality he had back in the camp. Survival, no plans for the future.
Shelter.
Down the stairs he went, and into Trashtown. He took a right, away from the obvious gangsters, not yet ready to take on that particular issue. He kept his hat low, his collar up, his hands in his pockets, and his worn, dirty garb helped him as he blended in with the other residents of the slums. He had never actually bought a home before, and hadn’t the slightest idea how it was done here.
Probably would be easier to just take one.
His boots tapped along the broken and upturned cobble streets, keeping him on the street side of the sidewalk, away from the exposed alleys. His eyes passed over each person he went by, lingering often on the exposed cleavage of the many hookers in these parts. They called out their prices as he went by and he was considering the offer. Reasonably priced.
But he needed shelter first.
Unless…
A smirk grew in the corner of his mouth, and he began to pay more attention to the prostitutes he passed. Many were in groups, some serving out of a nearby house or apartment. Some had guards with them, armed and generally standing around looking menacingly. Smart. That was probably the strength of the gangs here, protection.
And being an outsider, he didn’t know the domains, the codes of the gangs, nothing. He continued to wind through the shanty towns, finding more and more people ready and on their guard. It was frustrating. These people were prepared and guarded against the worst of their kind, it seemed. No easy victims to find here.
Then he remembered the woman from the boat and smiled.
Sometime later, Morin was back on the docks, helping to unload crates, under the guise of trying out for a job there. He had no intention of actually working for them, but it gave him reason to be there. He wiped his brow of sweat, leaning against a barrel as another ship of the same numbering as his own arrived. He watched the people disembark. He ignored the confident ones, people who lived in Gel’Grandal returning home.
Then he spotted her.
Timid, lugging a heavy piece of luggage behind her, and alone. She was pretty enough, long auburn curls, shorter, in a plain dress. Morin walked up to her, flashing a bright smile. “Welcome to Gel’Grandal. Do you need some help with your luggage?” She hesitated, then nodded, “Yes, thank you. I’m exhausted. I expect you’ll want payment?”
She set down the luggage, and he picked it up, “A tip is always welcomed. Where are we going with this? I can call for a cab.”
She handed him a coin, “Is this enough? I’ve never been to the city before.”
He nodded, acting grateful and gracious, “Of course. And no worries, I was new here once too.”
She pulled out a slip of paper and held it up for Morin to see. He had seen that street name during his walkabout earlier. “Oh that’s a quick enough walk from here. No need to waste your money on a cabbie. They overcharge people anyways. Damn crooks.” He said this jovially and she laughed with him.
“Thank you, are you sure it’s not too far?”
“It’s no problem at all, really. I’m finished with my shift and my home is that way anyways.”
She nodded and Morin began to walk with her. “So what brings you to our beautiful city?”
He made sure to keep a quicker pace, like many of the people here in the capital seemed to do. She kept up. “Well, my sister recently passed.” Morin stopped, “Oh, I’m sorry about that. It must be difficult.”
She nodded, “Thank you. We weren’t close after she moved here, but still, she’s my sister.”
Morin reached out, patting her on the shoulder. They then continued onward, Morin hefting the heavy suitcase up the stairs for the bridge. “Anyways, she left me her apartment. I never married or had children so, I figured, why not? Maybe my luck will be better in this city.”
Morin nodded, huffing a bit as they reached the top of the steps, “Yeah, I get that. The city of new beginnings.”
They walked in silence for a while now, crossing the bridge into Trashtown. Seeing the sight of this area, she moved in closer, “Is it much further?”
Morin pointed up at the street sign, “There’s the road, shouldn’t be much further down it.”
She nodded, picking up her pace, walking past the prostitutes without looking at any of them. Soon, they found the building with the numbers on it. She pulled out her key, fitting it into the wrought iron gate, and they both stepped inside. She counted the numbers, then realized it must be upstairs. Four flights of stairs later, they were at her apartment. The key turned in the lock and the apartment opened. As Morin stepped through behind her, “Where do you want this?”
Then he closed the door behind him and the deadbolt clicked into place.
