<strong>FOG</strong>by Carl Sandburg<br/>The fog comes<br/>on little cat feet.<br/><br/>It sits looking<br/>over harbor and city<br/>on silent haunches<br/>and then moves on.<br/><br/>Golgotha, City of the Skull (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eC4a-KhzcSUhzcSU)<br/>Skirting the White Plains (main square), at the edge of the Spinning Devil (slums)<br/><br/>The Governor's Ward echoes with dripping water from the evening rains, macabre in its tomblike solemnity.  Colossal sculptures of marble and granite are forever fixed in contortions of grandeur despite their chalk-stump broken arms, the veridian-tinged washes of corrosion on bronze, the fine sheen of oily lichen that pretends at modesty for their splayed bodies. Affixed to the mighty columns and vaulted buttresses, like wasps' nests abutting the great structures, are clusters of tenements rife with sagging and bubbled wood.  A stray dog meanders the streets, digging and nosing at piles of refuse, severed fronds of wind-whipped trees, forgotten shreds of plant-husks already picked clean of any edible remains.  Lights, here and there, peek from windows and doorways like glowing amber eyes, constantly seeking, constantly waiting.<br/><br/>One pile of refuse draws the dog's attention... something semi-edible, perhaps?  He sidles up, claws ticking on the stone paths of the once-great promenade, and hesitates at the noise of people.  But this dog knows that people mean food, so he edges closer, ears pinned back, nose working furiously. The pile of refuse smells of fresh blood and saturates the dog's nostrils with the stench of sweat, heady and steeped with rage and musk.  The dog's hackles raise defensively... the rags smell like wounds, smell like battle, but still there's something familiar there.  Something that speaks of thousands of years of coexistence with people... with humans who labor in fields, with dwarves who shed blood by hammers, with elves who ran the forest faster than any wolf pack and reveled in the thrill of earth and clean sweat.  so he lingers, he watches, he waits. His tail wags once expectantly.  The noise continues, and he listens.<br/><br/>A door, heavy iron hinges set on the inside, reinforced with crossed-iron bands and inset with beveled studs.  The bar inside is iron, too, inset to a frame that would not have yielded to any force short of a war-siege ram, and a small door at the top is barely tall enough for a man's eyes to perceive the street beyond.  It slides open, and eyes the color of piss spotted with kidney-blood peer through-- they do not see the dog.  The door slides shut.  The dog sighs and continues to wait.<br/><br/>Beyond that door, a chorus of cheers goes up again at the thick packing slap of bone and muscle breaking bone and muscle.  The half-orc bouncer at the door shrugs and turns his back to it again, refocusing his attention on the room.  And despite the quiet outside, this chamber-- only a few steps down from the street, the room is sealed tight against water gathering by virtue of its engineering, which lends itself well to contain the noise of many things inside... the torture of prisoners, the cheering of a mob watching an underground fight, the cries of beaten prostitutes... anything could happen here, and barely a whisper would leave.<br/><br/>A ribbon of blood is cast from a bruised, swollen mouth, cascading to bless the circling, chanting crowd.  More thuds, more packing noises, and a shaved-headed docksman is sprawled flat, his hands half-raised from the floor in unconsious submission as his swollen face fish-mouths for air around broken teeth.  His conqueror, a thick-chested dwarf with razor-sharp stubble on his shaven face, stands over him with bloodied fists, sweat dripping from his bare torso, preparing to drop a final blow from full-height that will-- most likely-- shatter the fallen man's skull.<br/><br/>An 'umpire' of sorts has been designated to keep order in this mayhem, and manages to save the fallen man from a deathblow only by wrapping the fighter completely in his arms and tackling him to the floor until more help can arrive.  The crowd goes wild with this defeat-- one of the more glorious fights of the evening.  Drunk and blood-mad to the last man, all angry and fierce as if they, too, are embroiled in the battle that they watch... they are dock-workers, crewmen, watchmen, gamblers, thieves, craftsmen-- a motley mob sharing drink and a lust for violence.<br/><br/>This was once Golgotha's courthouse, where in its massive main chamber, the lords and district representatives would send their proxies to preside over judicial matters for the Chelaxian government.  A far cry from a "just" court, it was, at least, an orderly one, and it did bear witness to some moments of history that were inspirational... the marriage of Lady Xodi and Ambassador Klathas, which ended a war and brought about decades of prosperous peace.  The annointing of Paladin Warrith, who saved the city from siege at the cost of her own life.  The surrender of General Tomas Korsine and signing of the subsequent treaty of annexation by Cheliax...<br/><br/>But tonight, the sun is on the exact opposite side of the world, and Golgotha's Court hosts the Night Festival.  The massive "pit" floor is crowded with the peasant watchers and peppered with waiting fighters, grifters, and general scum.  In the upper lofts, up where the judges used to sit, is where the wealthiest go for their entertainment, where the all-but-naked slave-servants present food and drink, entertain with sensuous dances from many lands never seen by most Golgothans themselves, and for a price to their owner will appease any other appetite-- no matter the desired flavor, from the most vile to the most violent.<br/><br/>Decoration is unnecessary... the acts within provide their own splendor, of a sort.  The event is Judgment Night, where the guard still showing allegiance to the Crown send forth their prisoners to be executed... after trial, of couse.  The event proved to be too difficult to maintain as a daily public ritual-- barely any work was getting done-- and too popular to make a private affair for government officials only.  So the Golgothans did the natural thing... they started charging admission and selling refreshments.  Thus any with a few coppers can chug grain alcohol, finger a prostitute, or gamble it away on the sparring-- 'organized' fights of men and women who will eagerly beat each other to death for their take of coin.<br/><br/>The executions are just a bonus.<br/><br/>*<br/><strong>[tagging: Nephele]</strong><br/><br/>The letter said the Courthouse at Golgotha, at midnight, and not to be late or speak to anyone along the way.  The letter was inked in silver on parchment pressed over a hundred years ago.  The letter had the grace and style of hand to indicate brilliance, austerity, wealth... the letter, the letter, the letter.  A symptomatic penmanship, a quality that surpassed the wealth of her former love's family and crushed their perceived superiority like a bug under a heavy heel.<br/><br/>The letter.  It promised, it spoke senselessly and silently.  She had to wonder if it was enchanted immediately-- and in fact, it was, though she could not comprehend its nature.  It had brought her here, to the side alley where a broken building slumped resignedly against and a massive marble and slate structure... the grand architecture awe-striking even in decay.  Pillars run the length of each side, casting dangerous-seeming black shadows despite the moonlight, and great iron doors stand like sentries at the front, lashed-over by thick bars bolted to the stone to keep them forever closed.  In one alleyway, there's a scratching of noise for a moment that dies out into silence, but Nephele's glimmering eyes easily pierce those shadows, making out the silhouette of a lanky, mangy dog sitting in the alleyway, its head cocked curiously in her direction, ready to disappear into the night if threatened.<br/><br/>The letter.  Questions remain... who will find her, of course, and how can she trust them?  All questions will remain unanswered, it seems, and will remain that way indefinitely until the asker provides their own answer.<i>Questions, like why had she done it?  Had she liked it more with the girl?  Was it because of the seduction, or the vengeance, or would she even have wanted to if it hadn't been for a reckoning?</i><br/><br/>Uncertainty marks prey, her wisdom speaks in her mind, so she moves with confidence.  The door is described on this side, where the noise was.  Where the dog lurks and watches.<i>Questions.  Are her parents better off now..?  Will they be left alone now that she's left?  At least they will be cared for in their requirements... but what next for them..?  Would they even care?</i><br/><br/>Seven steps from the door, the dog slinks back, curling into its own shadow and seeking to hide in the dark.  As if from preternatural awareness, a metal grate slides open with a click, shedding a thin ray of light around the peering face of the half-orc within.  Nothing is said, nothing is imparted.  And definitely nothing is answered regarding the letter.<br/><br/>Nephele is left standing in the alley, bile-yellow eyes piercing into hers, a glint of scrutiny in them.  "Your writ?" a rough voice asks, muffled by the iron door.  "Gotta be licensed by the mayor to ply your wares here."<br/><br/><br/><strong>[tagging: Oxenbridge]</strong><br/><br/>Amid the crowd, past the holding cells near the old guard station, a few tables sit.  "I can't be any more clear, boy.  Don't make me reconsider my offer," says the long-toothed half-elf with mismatched eyes.  He gave his name as 'Crow', but from his experience with these people, Ox suspects this isn't even his<i>usual</i>byname.  "You got three choices, boy, way I sees it. You need coin and information if you want revenge.  Law costs money, and law needs evidence... OR, if you wanna just slag the bloke, you need them too."  Crow tips his head and shrugs, the avian gesture seeming eerie on his hollow-thin face.<br/><br/>"so.  One, you go jump on a merchant ship, try to earn it.  We know that tale-- you get pressed service your whole life, taking it up the ass from the big gnarly louts what been doing it for years, until you get big and tough enough to do it back-- IF ya live-- and finally come back with a handful of copper, missin' an eye, an' the whole city's moved on so you can never find a thing.  Two-- you go out in that street and start beatin' every face what ever worked for Lagon, you get some lies and stories out of 'em, and you catch a blade in the kidneys and die slow and dirty.  Tick-Tock, they get word of you... and it's snap."<br/><br/>The next fight has already begun, and as if to emphasize the point that Crow is seeking-- like fucking gods' intervention-- a leathery-skinned Tiefling catches a low blow from the same bloody-knuckled dwarf from the last fight.  The blow audibly ruptures the devil's testicles-- or perhaps simply shatters his pelvis, who can<i>really</i>tell when it's that bad..?  Either way, it's not pretty, and the Tiefling collapses with a shrill cry and begins spasming on the floor-- probably the preamble of his last, awkward dance as his nerves and organs revolt in horror.  He's going to die, unless he pre-paid a friend to get him out alive and get him healed up.<br/><br/>"Ooh.  Piss on that.  Anyway, number three's the best all around.  I done some diggin', but I ain't givin' away nothin' free.  You fight, you win, I give you what I learned and some coin.  I go looking again, and you heal up.  The sun goes up, the sun goes down... but I do the research, you earn the coin, and eventually you have your resources, and thus your revenge... but you keep out of the questioning, and nobody buries a blade in yer arse."  He lifts a clay up of ale to his lips and shrugs.  "Just go knock out that Dwarf and you're one step closer to... ah... you know.  All that what happened.  With Diana."<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">sense motive available, if your character wouldn't figure out what should be ridiculously obvious about Crow to you as a player</div></div><br/>He gestures to the ring, where the Dwarf, his arms so long that they almost touch the ground, is circling the ring laughing and thumping his thick chest.  Someone passes the fighter a tankard, and he snatches it, chugging it rapidly and throwing back his mohawk-cut hair.  "Fackin' PISS ale!" he declares and tosses the empty tankard aside.  "Loike yer fackin' harbor-whore's leavin's HAHAAAAA".  The crowd seems to enjoy this thoroughly, and in the shadows of the rafters, even a few of the wealthier crowd have leaned over to applaud in appreciation of the mayhem sown.<br/><br/>Crow grins.  "Oh, he's cocky now.  Get in the ring.  Wear him out, watch out for the cheap shots, and just... you know.  Have a laugh at his face when you break it."<br/><br/>*<br/><br/><strong>[tagging Mina, Malia]</strong><br/><br/>Past where Crow spins his web of bullshit, a cluster of farmers are playing dice on a rickety table stacked with chunks of copper coins, commonly referred to in these parts as "throwing chips" since the average token is only a severed quarter of a copper piece from the old Empire.  A bearded older man seems unaware that there has ever been a fight in this chamber, and seems content simply to rattle the carved-bone dice near his ear to savor the sound, while his companion, a slovenly human lad with sagging breeches who over-fills his own bench, stares numbly in the direction of the prisoners' cells.<br/><br/>A guard stands a few feet from the bars, arms crossed over his wiry chest, and shrugs at the chafing of his studded-leather armor.  Behind him, in a dark alcove only four feet high, a pair of young women are chained together with a cheap iron lock, the only exit crossed-over by a salvaged iron gate.  The cell used to be a grand, seven-foot deep fireplace, or oven perhaps-- but it lacks in any comforts but a clay jug of water and a wooden bucket.  The filth on the ground is rivaled only by the filth in the corners, which for the past few hours both Mina and Malia have been careful to avoid. Beyond the bars, they can see the goings-on, but everything is limited in its scope, its angle-- everything is muffled and reverberating through the tiny, makeshift cell.<br/><br/>Only one guard is visible from this angle... a far cry from the twelve or so who had arrived at the Baron's-- no.  No, it's the Baroness' now.<i>Hers.</i>--  Twelve had arrived at the Baroness' estate at her beck and call, taking over for the servants that the bitch had ordered to contain the two girls by 'any means necessary'.  Two of those twelve officious and self-righteous brutes had slapped iron cuffs onto the girls, connecting their ankles and wrists, but the Baroness had protested.<br/><br/><i>"Such rough treatment-- you seem to have forgotten that these... these... <b>things</b> are beings with souls, with minds... no matter their crime.  Why treat them like animals..?"<br/><br/>She was in plain sight of them both, saying this to the guards with weeping, coal-stained eyes, her powder and her husband's blood still on her violet and saffron dress.  "Why not HANDLE them as women..?" the Baroness had suggested, her grimace of agony and anger settling to a determined, vicious glare, then a slow-spreading smile.  "Handle these little whores for what they are... then let the courts HANDLE them, then let the MOBS handle them, then the DOGS in the STREET can SHIT on them and even the lepers and ghouls can FUCK THEM TO DEATH WHILE THEY ROT!" the shattering crecendo of her voice stang, reeked of liquor and age, and her words came with dry spittle as she screamed in their faces.  "HANDLE THEM where I can WATCH it!" she hissed and collapsed, defeated, into an overstuffed armchair.  "Make... them... pay."</i><br/><br/>The two of them were still bleeding and bruised, and even if the ceiling had been fully raised, they may not have been able to walk fully upright.<br/><br/>A second guard calls over, causing the first to turn his profile to face the other.  Their devil-masked helms were clear now in the lantern-light from above the cell, both crudely forged from folded metal on some sort of template resembling a distorted face. These helmets were only imitations of higher officers' ancient, true Chelaxian helms, the visors of which were engraved and forged by artisans long ago when such detail seemed worth the effort.<br/><br/>"Get the whores up, tell 'em to wash off," the second says in a stern voice, and then quieter, "more fun to kill 'em when they're pretty than rode hard and put-up wet.  Plus, some bloated tick in the nest might decide to buy 'em."<br/><br/>The first nodded at that.  "Worth a shot.  They were comely, weren't they?"  He looks over his shoulder, his unflinching mask grinning in silhouette.  "Not some comely now, but they'll clean up.  Fuck, if I had the coin, I'd keep one for when the wife's got the belly-ache."<br/><br/>The two laugh.  "Aaah, you'd knock them up and then you'd be back where you were.  More women, more problems old boy."  The laughter returns, the second guard leaves.<br/><br/>"Wash your face.  It's clean up and get sold, or you get the iron flail, or the rack, or the feast of coals... Oh, an' and it's steep bounty, too.  Killing a noble, I haer?  Fuckin' mayor will be here to get his cut, I'm sure, and e'll have his guards stationed everywhere."  Chuckle. "So... just wash up, tarts."<br/><br/>*<strong><br/>[tagging Cris] <br/></strong><br/>The voices are quieter still a little father away, though a heavy oak door that creaks horribly when opened.  Here are the "standard" cells, where common criminals are<i>typically</i>held, except those that will draw the biggest crowds.  In its prime, the courthouse's reinforced holding-corridor could contain perhaps forty men awaiting trial. But it is clear, through the small, barred viewing window, that the cells opposite were wiped out by fire... incredibly devastating fire, from the warped hunks of iron that still protroude from the ground and remnant walls like overgrown black mushrooms.  A collapsed tower had saved them the effort of sealing the walls to prevent entry... the many feet of rubble provided an adequate barricade that the now-ruined wing was buried in stone and shale.<br/><br/>"Keep staring, it won't change a thing."  The voice echoed fro the hallway, through a similar window to the one Cris faced.  It had been comforting a few times, once.  In between violent shouts, curses, threats, insults... sometimes there had been jokes, sometimes comments that were almost complimentary.  That voice destroyed Cris inside for years, warped and hollowed the inside of her mind, chiseled and mined the ore of her courage and spirit and left hollows in its wake.  The voice that had commanded her to steal, the closest thing to praise she would receive from it ever, except the almost bragging admission that voice gave in condemning her to death, betraying her thefts at his request.  That voice had killed her already.<br/><br/>"Bet you wonder how I know you're staring out the itty-bitty fackin' window, huh?"  A low chuckle. "Cause I know you, you stupid little shit.  You're thinkin' a fairy's gone fly in and let you out, or a kind princess will show up an' bestow your pardon.  An the only way out is gonna come from that little window, eh?"  That laugh, so familiar, so engrained in her soul... low, throaty, an life of smoking and cheap whiskey fraying its edges.  "Only thing comin' is the end."  The laugh that sought her belly, her spine, her heart, and caused her to flinch reflexively away.<br/><br/>The crowd noise surges again, as someone suffers, collapses, possibly dies.  Who knows. The roar of voices and laughter, of cheap instruments poorly played, takes a new pitch as the muffling of the outer door is taken away suddenly, with a rattle of keys and the clank of a heavy bar.  Someone is coming.<br/><br/>".. would have been four, but one got into a scrape with another, stabbed 'im wif a broken bowl, right 'ere in the neck..." from the sound, the approaching guard is gesturing at his jawline.<br/><br/>Cris doesn't need to see the mock-gesture, she witnessed the real-thing firsthand.  Her father's two cellmates were fighting with each other over who'd 'get the boy's arse first,' and she could tell her father was negotiating, upping the value, about to drop the bomb of her actual sexual makeup as a last-minute way of gouging the price, but the first had lost his temper and shattered the watering bowl on the others head, then hacked at his neck furiously with a jagged tip until he managed to puncture an artery.  Cris' father, of course, told the whole story-- omitting the bit about his child's anatomy as a 'hole card'-- in the hopes he'd be spared.  Again.<br/><br/>He wasn't.  Again.<br/><br/>"What happened to the one killed the other?" A second out-of-sight guardsman asks.<br/><br/>The guard laughs.  "Hung himself.  Can you believe it?  Fuckin' thief, rustler, raper, fucker, slasher and gouger, and the fucker goes into mourning over killin' his friend, can't take it, and EEUUUGGGKK!"  He must have pantomimed a gesture, as the other emits a laugh rich with bravado and scorn.  The voices are very close, and though she can't see her father's cell, Cris can see the two soldiers.  "Lousy fucks.  Leave this city alone an' they'll all die off in a month."<br/><br/>"ARIGHT! BACK" orders the second, who pounds Cris' cell door with a leather-gauntleted hand.  "I'll fuckin spit ya through the eye you little shit, now back up to that wall."  He looks over his shoulder at the first guard, the twisted iron mask of a mock-devil turning this way and that in disbelief.  "Ya sure 'bout this?  Little fuck's got no beard, even.  Nuts still stuck to the bud and all I bet.  OI, little shit, 'ow old are you?<br/><br/>"... fuckin CARES?" the first retaliates, the question seemingly... well... rhetorical.  "Get shackles on the little prat.  Give 'em a slow death while they're hot from the fights, an' they'll give no fucks if it's a babe in arms bein' spit-roasted.<br/><br/>[If Cris complies]... the door is swung inward, and a chain quickly latched to the iron collar that has been riveted to her neck... it was the smallest size that they had.  "Right, there's the butter, let's get the churn."  They repeat the process after temporarily fastening Cris to a wall loop, then link the two together.  "Devils' balls, I'm tired of this shit."<br/><br/>"What if I gave you somethin' else?"<br/><br/>It's Cris' father again, and though his scheming, slimy confidence is apparent to them, she's surprised to notice that his fingertips are actually trembling.<br/><br/>"what... what if I told you 'bout, ah, a secret, right?  Like, is there any chance... any 'tall, you could carry a message to the nest?"  He means the nobles' roost.  Clearly, he's been here before.  "You could split the coin, after they buy my freedom, you just take half of what's left as yours, yeah?  I got somethin' to sell.  Some of 'em has, like, appetites-- you know?  They like certain things--"<br/><br/>The guard, apparently annoyed by this, stabs down the pommel of the sword on his hip, levering the sheathed blade up to crack her father between the legs, stunning him with a shock of pain.  "Oops.  Sorry there, convict."<br/><br/>The other guard laughs again.  "Oh, by the dark lord, that never gets old."  He laughs like a hyena as the first, turning his masked face to Cris' father, simply sighs aloud and stomps down-- hard-- on the chain connecting the prisoners' necks.  With snapping of metal against stone, her father is yanked from his feet to the floor, breaking his nose.  Just behind him, Cris must fight to keep her balance despite the sudden leverage toward the floor--<br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">[reflex save DC 10: fail? take 1d4 (2) Non-lethal damage from the fall.  Pass? Cris keeps her feet]</div></div><br/>"OHAAGGGH!" her father screams in fury, unable to clutch his nose as blood flows freely, pain and tears blinding his eyes.  "GnnnnnaaAAAAUGH!  HERE!" he chokes, but the noise of the crowd spills out again as a third guard outside opens the cell-room door to the main chamber.  "I'm trying to TELL YOU, damnit... I-- I-- I can sell you a gir-AUUGH" the chain yanks again and he slips on a puddle of spilled ale.  Or, at least, one can hope it is ale.<br/><br/>They are being led toward the side of a roped-off pit mid-room, the sides blackened with centuries of soot, where in a pit of sand a dwarven fighter is celebrating his victory and taunting the crowd.  The pillory always comes last, and tonight, there's one more fight.