Barison Veril was not a brave man, a strong man, a stern man, or even truly a good man. It had been said, in fact, that he wasn’t much of a man at all.

He did, however, love booze.

Not that he was a drunkard—he simply lacked the funds for it, which was its own particular curse. Here he was, a merchant of fine furs, perpetually broke. The Holy texts said wine was a gift of God. Who was he to refuse a gift? The logic was sound. The poverty less so.

Despite his lack of coin, Barison could not find fault with the early morning light, the crisp air, or the beautiful sound of life—of people going about their day—around him. He enjoyed being with people in an intrinsic way that few understood, and even the presence of another person, a simple conversation, made him feel alive in a way that even the drink or his books could not. Today was a day of wonder, and Barison let it buoy his spirits.

“Hey you, get out of here! How many times do I need to tell you?”

The exception to Barison’s rule that all people made him happy appeared. This particular gentleman was doing his best to imitate a weasel. Nose pushed up, long whiskers, bad attitude, and an even worse smell.

The individual, William, was now hurrying toward him waving his beefy hands threateningly. Barison considered imitating the ridiculous squatting way of walking the man had, but decided that he still enjoyed eating solid foods, so the thought quickly passed.

“I am only here as a servant of God. To spread the good message-”

Barison meant to extol the virtues of patience, to remind the rapidly growing audience around them of the importance of peace and love, but William decided to share his own message, his fist sinking deep into Barison's belly with little warning.

Was it a wheeze or more of a whimper? Barison considered as he lay on the cold, damp cobblestones trying to catch his breath. Breathe finally caught, he attempted to push himself up. That's when William's second lesson arrived in the form of a none too gentle kick to Barison’s thigh which sent fire running up his suddenly numb limb.

“Brother, I know you wish me to hate you, but that is something that you can never accomplish. It would be a shame to hurt your foot on a useless effort,” Barison said between painful breaths. Or that's what he meant to say. Between the kick to his stomach, his face pressed into what he hoped was mud, and Williams' own inability to comprehend the most basic words he couldn't be sure what came across.

Another kick, this time to his ankle. His message had apparently not been heard, best to rally forth another effort. Gritting his teeth from the jolt of pain, he turned his face to catch some air and started.

“Brother, I know that-”

Smack.

A foot found Barison's stomach and sank deep. The air exploded from his lungs, and once again he was left unable to speak. He rolled over completely on his back and clutched his hands to his stomach, now racked with pain. He blinked tears away and fought to keep his food down.

William's unwelcome face materialized above him, standing over his head now, boot inches from his face. Barison supposed this was its own lesson, as he sucked the putrid stench coming off his boots with each gasping breath.

“No. Lookin. At. The. Merchandise.”

Each word was slow and deliberate and left no room for argument, but still Barison was not one to be defeated so easily. He caught his breath and heaved his heavy frame up into a half sitting position in the street, just in time apparently as a cow trundled by dragging a cart, the wheel rolling where his head had been only a moment before.

“You never even asked me how my day was, just straight to the clobbering, which admittedly you are one of the best at. Still I feel your talents could be turned to a more industrious purpose,” Barison threw a tone of hurt into his voice. Given his current pain, it was not difficult.

“Brother, with gifts like yours you could be a skilled carpenter. Wouldn't even need to bring a hammer, just knock the nails in with your fists, and split the timbers with your looks.”

This time Barison saw it coming and easily stepped back in time letting Williams fist harmlessly whip by his nose. Barison went to say more, but the crowd that had drawn to watch had slowly started to trickle back to their business, no longer confident they would see blood today. One man in particular shouldered roughly by Barison, leaving him nearly as sore as Williams' kick to the ankle.

After a moment the street returned to the steady trickle of people one would expect at this time in the morning, and the few customers momentarily distracted by the fight resumed their various diversions, or purchasing of said diversions.

“I've told you over and over to beat it bastard. You don't ever pay, and you just sniff around at my girls. Well, the way I see it you already owe me money for all the free looks you've had.”

Barison neatly dodged another cart, though not without his coat brushing the side as it rolled by. Dirty brown straw and the overpowering smell of rancid shit assailed him, and unfortunately did not leave him with the cart. A quick glance showed that the cart's contents had indeed left their mark, and his company would no longer be enviable until washed off.

“You know what happens to folks that owe me money?”

Barison wasn't sure why William bothered, he'd already demonstrated his meaning. Some men it seemed were not blessed with an inspired intellect. Still, men like that needed things spelled out. Well, he was nothing if not polite, and he'd happily assist.

“Brother you have made your point on every chance meeting we have. I do not doubt your ability to draw bruises from me. I simply do not care. As we have discussed on so many other occasions, I go where I can share my gifts to the greatest effect.”

“Gifts huh. Funny way of sayin you can't get a girl, and you cant pay for one either, so you're just gonna ogle mine.”

“Ah, but a man cannot own another, that is a sacred tenet laid out in the scriptures. I believe this too we have discussed at length,” Barison said cheerily as he drew nearer to one of Williams' charges.

She forced a smile, but it did not meet her eyes. Dead things, devoid of hope. Practically devoid of life. Barison hid the sadness he felt for her behind a well practiced smile. His pain was temporary, but there would be no end for hers, not in a city such as this.

Still, it would do neither of them any good for Barison to wring his hands and remind her of how miserable her life was. The women who worked here were accustomed to those sorts. With the growth of the industry, the state run churches had increased their efforts, sending out missionaries into the deepest and darkest corners of the city, and with those missionaries had come a never ending torrent of hand wringing, and ‘woe is me's’, without any real consideration for what put the women here.

Barison had seen much of the Empire, had traveled throughout most of his youth, and in that time he had never once seen one of the Churches anointed actually help anyone. They taught the fire and brimstone, and preached of lightning striking the damned who lived in sin, but the women who were shouted at, and beat, and abused in the most horrific ways, they weren't selling themselves because they liked it, and that was just something the Church could not seem to understand.

Barison could see through the painted faces and false smiles though. He could see the mothers and daughters who just wanted to live, a way to feed themselves, or their families. If there had been any other work for them to do, they would've done so. But here in Marchand, life was cheap and plentiful, and when one worker died, twenty more clamored to take their spot.

No, here in the forgotten parts of Marchand, there was no mercy. No one patrolled these streets, or could even be bothered to think of the men and women who called it home. All that mattered was that the mills kept milling, and the crops were harvested on time. Even for those that did get a job, so often the work was seasonal and they would be back in the slums living off scraps until the owners and Lords came through.

This woman before him, she might have been a farm hand up until a day ago for all Barison knew. Luck ran out quickly here, but the demands of life and taxes never failed. He looked into her face, roughly smeared with a ghastly white facepaint, likely to hide the imperfections and mask her age, but Barison was not easily fooled. Thin creases ran the length of her face beneath the paint, and a single grey hair showed in her neatly pinned up hair. Pretty of course, they all had to be for this line of work, but worn down. She was not long for this line of work, already he suspected she was not a popular choice. And what then when she could no longer sell herself?

The smile faded as her eyes flitted over his shoulder. The dead expression returned, and Barison turned to face William again.

 

—-

 

Rosa watched the fat little man turn away as William stormed up towards him, murder in his eyes. She wasn't sure what his game had been, or what he had been after, but it looked increasingly likely that neither of them would get what they wanted.

Still, he had not seemed a violent sort, and maybe even a good man. Rosa liked to imagine that all her clients were gentlemen with good hearts and deep pockets, but telling yourself a lie, even if you believed it, did not make it truth.

The man took a meaty blow from William and stumbled back. She had missed the words leading up to the blow, but then it did not matter. One of the other girls, Lidia, pulled her worn cloak tight against herself as if to block the all too familiar beating taking place in front of them.

Rosa too, moved back, as the fat man fell back again nearly knocking her over as he took another fist to the gut. He was not a fighter, that much was evident, and Rosa felt some small blossom of sympathy, but did not step in. She needed this job, and in this line of work you needed protection. William was that protection. So he took his cut, four coins for every five they earned. It was unfair, but it was better than what happened to those that didn't accept his help.

The fat man had picked himself up, with some unwelcome assistance from William; the rough man dragged firmly at his neck, before giving him a final shove down the street. Rosa felt mostly indifferent at the man's departure, but the momentary distraction had given her a chance to breathe without William shaking them down.

She quickly ran her eyes down her dress, far too tight, and with the hem brought up to the point of discomfort in the shade of the buildings around her. Mud had splattered her bare legs, and she felt her heart race. She shakily pulled a simple kerchief from her pocket and stooped, dabbing at the spots.

Something shiny glittered in the mud by her feet and Rosa hesitated only a moment. Her eyes darted around, then unthinkly she snatched at the coin, only to find a small, plain brown purse, with two coins spilled out. The purse disappeared into her left shoe nearest the purse. She looked around one last time relieved that no one had noticed the slight movement. Her heart that had raced with panic only a moment before now raced with excitement, and she couldn't believe her luck.

Rosa finished wiping the mud from her pale legs and thighs and stood, the coin pouch digging painfully into her foot where it only barely fit. She did not mind the pain, and felt a guilty thrill. The money was not hers and undoubtedly belonged to the man who had only a moment before been thrashed half to death. She scanned the passerbys, but did not see him. Rosa liked to believe that she would have returned the fallen purse, but what would have been the point? William would have just taken it from the fat man himself if he had seen it. Maybe it would have saved the man a few blows, bought him an early respite from the pain, but what was done was done.

A man leered at her from the crowd. A sickly man, with a sick smile. Flat eyes that made her skin crawl as they scanned her figure, judging her like a piece of meat, paying close attention to every curve and feature except her face. She plastered a wide smile and tried to meet his gaze when it did arrive, but could not, instead focussing on a single strand of greasy hair hanging low above his right eye.

He was talking now, not to her though, they never spoke to the women here. They didn’t want conversation, only what they could give of their body. William had come up beside him, and the two talked together for a moment, and money changed hands. Rosa felt like crying, and desperately wanted to clutch her clothing tight around her and crawl into a hole. But she didn't, and she didn't refuse as she was guided into the rundown building behind, then further towards one of the dark rooms that only ever held misery. The doorway hung open, a great maw ready to swallow her up.

A small pain dug into her foot, and with it a strange reassurance, and she found the strength to go on. Rosa had not counted it, there had been no time, but she had seen enough. Even if the money would not change her life, maybe, just maybe, it would shield her own daughter from this misery and pain. For that, she sent a prayer for the fat man who, through his own clumsiness and misfortune, had given her a reason to keep going.

 

—----

 

Barison's lip had split, and there was a hole below his lip where he had bit it when he fell. He could still taste the blood. He probed it gently with his pinky. His finger came away wet, and he could feel a trail dribbling down his face disconcertingly. Still, he had asked for it, and it wouldn't have been the first time. Really his bad luck that William had been there.

He wiped distractedly at the injury with the back of his hand. It wasn't helping and he knew it, but he felt like he should do something about it. He felt where his coin pouch should be and felt his third and final remaining pouch hidden within. A smile touched his swollen face, though quickly replaced with a grimace as his torn lip stretched and he tasted more blood.

He continued through the lower city districts aimlessly, his eyes wandering before settling on a group of ragged youths loitering nearby.

There were three of them. Dark locks of dirty hair framed equally disheveled and dirty faces. Three sets of downcast eyes followed him as he walked. The oldest one was likely close to 17, the other two at nearly two heads shorter had to be half his age. The two smaller children huddled closer at the sight of him, and the older one watched him warily.

Barison did not blame them, his was hardly a handsome visage to behold, but he smiled all the same. He threw a subtle limp into his gait, not a hard thing to do given recent beating, and dropped one shoulder. He let his eyes droop and closed his coat, clutching it tightly as if to ward off evil spirits. As he began to pass he turned his head as if something had occurred to him and brought himself to a shaky halt, leaning forward and throwing his balance off intentionally.

“Got a drink?”

He slurred his voice, well practiced, with just a hint of confusion thrown into his voice. There was no response from the children, but he hadn't expected one, not yet.

“Seem to have lost my table,” he loosely gestured at himself. “Still have coins to pay, and a thirst to quench.”

The trio remained silent, but there was less fear now, quickly being replaced with disgust on one face, and a growing thoughtfulness on the older one. The third's fearfulness remained and the child had now shied behind the other two.

“I just need a drink or pay for directions. More if you can put some fire in my hand now.”

The older one was considering him, the wounds and bloody beating he'd received lending credibility to the idea he was a drunkard thrown out after a particularly violent disagreement.

The older one continued to watch him, but with a new glint of interest in his eye. He looked down at the child in front and nodded. Siblings, Barison could tell now. Behind the dingy clothes and matted hair was a familiar structure to their appearances. He had suspected as much, but he was happy to see he had been right.

The younger child surprised him when he spoke for the three, a waver of uncertainty in his voice, but the older one set a reassuring hand on his shoulder and his voice grew firmer.

“Aye, we can show you where to get a cheap bottle, but it's gonna cost you.”

Barison put a note of desperation into his voice, edged with excitement as he replied.

“The cost is no object, I just need a drink before I start to sober up,” he gestured at his bloody face, careful to maintain a slur. “This hurts now, but I can't imagine how it'll feel without some fire in my belly.”

The older one made a strange motion with his hands while the younger one watched intently. Then they turned back to face Barison, the interest having turned to greed, though a hint of that initial wariness remained. They might have bought his act, but he was no master liar, with enough questions they could tear his story to pieces.

Barison grunted and started to turn back towards the road, as if to continue on his way, but really running a careful glance around the passerbys. No one was paying them any attention at the moment, and he relaxed marginally. While he regularly played the fool, he was not so foolish as to declare his wealth in front of anyone but his choosing, and in situations he could control. He had made that mistake only once, but it had been painful enough that any further pain, even today's beating, was little more than a walk in the park. For the victim of his charity however, it had been her last night, and that pain nearly killed him far more effectively than the faded scars along the length of his back.

“We can get you some grog if you wait a minute. Don't have much, but enough to burn your guts away for a day.”

Barison turned back and nodded his head, forcing an eagerness into his face, inwardly grimacing at the idea of drinking that pig swill, but it was cheap, and likely the only thing that street rats could get their hands on easily. He told himself he wasn't really doing this for the drink, but he still had held out hope for a wine or brandy, for all his acting he really could use a drink to ease the pain jabbing into his body at every step.

A bottle appeared in his hand and he blinked, surprised at the speed it had appeared. He looked up and met the older one's gaze as his hand remained out, waiting for the promised payment. Barison grunted, and carefully fished out his final coin purse, a small brown thing, no shine or glitter to it, and unnoticeable to anyone walking by with his back to the street as it was.

He pressed it into the youths hands and turned on, not waiting to see their expressions. He ambled down the street now taking a long, deep pull from the bitter smelling liquor. He nearly gagged as the fire burned down his throat, instead settling for an awkward cough. A moment later the fire settled in his stomach and he felt the warmth start to spread, a pleasant tingle running to his extremities.

He took another swallow now as he turned another corner and began to make his way out of the Garden district. A day already accomplished, and only half over, perhaps he could now retire and return to his books and holy texts. He took another pull and smiled again, the lip immediately beginning to drip blood as it tore. Barison did not mind though, and his mind fell into a blissful fog as he staggered back to his quarters, legs taking him down well memorized streets as he meshed with the throng of workers and carts disappearing among the mud and muck of a city known only for ruined dreams.