CharlesEBrown
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Have started this one twice - once back as a teenager, and then again about five years later in college. Both times got to about chapter three and burned out. And yet... a contest on PocketFM may have given me the hook I need to force it out... if I'm willing to post in "real time" ...
So... here goes...
The clock tower that loomed over the city-state of Sulbrod chimed midnight. Given that the last person who truly understood the complex workings of the tower died nearly five years prior, it being nearly four minutes late was hardly surprising.
Below, the city was a sprawling maze of stone, wood and metal, all encased in thick stone walls twenty feet high. A powerful river flowed through the city, providing a dividing line between the wealthiest third of the community and the city’s other residents. The clocktower stood on the “rich side” as a pillar of the largest bridge connecting them.
Even at this hour, the narrow streets showed much activity - perhaps a third of what it would have by day, but with nearly the same number engaged in nefarious activities. More non-humans were evident after the sun had set, but humans were still the clear majority.
On the third story of a building near the watchtower, a figure clad in a dark gray outfit emerged onto a balcony and scanned the night before quickly scrambling up the side of the building and onto its slate roof - blue by day, but gray by night.
Once atop the roof, the figure scanned the night before acting. A black mask concealing all of its face but his eyes, gray cloak fluttering in the night breeze, occasionally leaving a sheathed sword and collection of daggers visible to any hypothetical onlookers.
As soon as it felt secure, the figure crouched down and began sliding along the edge of the roof, gaining speed as it neared the river side edge, then, just before it would have hit the gutter ringing the roof, it sprung up and out, soaring towards the water, one arm outstretched, but the other grasping an edge of its cloak.
As it neared the water, the figure made an odd move with its free hand, kicked at the air and turned slightly, just enough that it could lash out with the cloak and catch part of a lamppost.
A beggar in the street below looked up from the trash it had been exploring and observed the figure’s passage, an audience of one as it watched the aerialist spin twice, once around an arm of the post, and then around the post itself, to redirect its momentum towards the bridge. The beggar paused for a moment to clap in pleasure at the athletic display before resuming his search for food or discarded valuables.
The cloaked figure landed on the roof of the bridge’s main guard tower, the noise of its landing perfectly timed with the changing of the guards below to be overlooked by all but the most observant, none of whom glanced the right way to catch the furtive figure.
The figure waited until the guards relieved of their duty for the night left, most of them headed towards the poor side of the city, before moving again.
This time it dropped down the side of the guard post, barely touching the walls enough to control its speed of descent, slipping below the bridge to access the network of wires and ropes - dubbed by some ‘the thieves’ bridge' - below the stone structure.
Moving with a practiced speed and grace that bordered on the superhuman, the figure navigated this ‘under bridge' fast enough to remain just a little behind the group of seven guards doing one last foot patrol before calling it a night.
When the guards reached the poor side, they stopped in the more modest station there - a station only staffed during daylight hours, but also often used by local food merchants to drop off stuff that failed to sell that day as a treat to the watch. From the sounds, either the beggars had been through before, or the merchants had been less generous than usual, and the patrol barely spent five minutes here before moving on.
As soon as they were out of sight, the figure under the bridge slipped out of concealment, scaled the watch station, and once on its roof, again launched itself into the night, once more using a lamp post to redirect its ‘flight’ and landing on a nearby thatch roof.
This was far quieter than the slate on the other side of the river.
The buildings here were even closer together than in the wealthier part of town and the lone figure moved from rooftop to rooftop fairly quickly, noting at least two others on similar nocturnal adventures.
Finally, it found its destination, a three-story building with a wordless sign out front depicting a massive yellow creature with four arms. Two arms ended in claws while the other two held items - one a skewer of food, the other a tankard. Sound and light spilled out of the ground floor, but the cloaked figure’s attention was on the higher floors. Most of the rooms there were dark, but thin light, either from guttering lanterns or single candles, flickered in three. Counting windows, the cloaked figure identified its target, moved back to the center of the roof it was on, and ran, leaping out at the edge, soaring across.
For the first time that night, the figure’s aim was off, and it landed on a balcony adjacent to its target with a slight curse. It easily covered the distance to the correct window, and pulled it open.
A balding man with a hawkish nose and thick, dark eyebrows sat tallying figures in a thick book. When the window opened, the figure jumped and almost fell out of its chair. He was a short, heavyset man with thin lips and the ink-stained fingers of a bookkeeper or an academic. The room smelled of sweat, burnt tallow, and sour wine.
When the cloaked figure slipped into the room, the man frowned, but said nothing, and carefully set blotting paper over the page he’d been writing.
A voice, masculine and fairly young-sounding, came from the masked figure, stating blandly: “it is done.”
Before the other could react, the cloaked man pulled a small pouch off of his belt and tossed it onto the table where the other had been working.
The pouch landed with a wet thud.
In a thin voice with a shrill edge to it, the balding man asked: “what is this?”
“The proof you asked for. Guards were coming so I did not have time to … clean it. Do you have the money?”
Nervously, hawk-nose picked up the pouch, opened it, and went pale as the object slipped from his fingers. A spot of red liquid splashed out. “The whole finger?” He gasped.
“The whole payment?” Was the only reply.
“Oh, ah, I, ah, don’t carry that much with me. I have a little over half in the chest over there,” the other replied, pleasantly surprised to not be stuttering.
The cloaked figure examined the chest. “Looks like a needle trap in the lock, but not engaged.” Quickly he popped it open and saw a mass of coins inside. He sifted through them, then closed the box and hefted it.
“A little less than half, I would wager, though the value of the box itself brings it closer to half.” He took a small wooden card out of a pouch and tossed it to the balding figure. “Get the rest to this address by nightfall tomorrow or the next time you see me, I will be unmasked…”
The man in the room glanced nervously at the pouch on his table, muttered “understood,” and looked back up.
He was alone in the room.
So... here goes...
The clock tower that loomed over the city-state of Sulbrod chimed midnight. Given that the last person who truly understood the complex workings of the tower died nearly five years prior, it being nearly four minutes late was hardly surprising.
Below, the city was a sprawling maze of stone, wood and metal, all encased in thick stone walls twenty feet high. A powerful river flowed through the city, providing a dividing line between the wealthiest third of the community and the city’s other residents. The clocktower stood on the “rich side” as a pillar of the largest bridge connecting them.
Even at this hour, the narrow streets showed much activity - perhaps a third of what it would have by day, but with nearly the same number engaged in nefarious activities. More non-humans were evident after the sun had set, but humans were still the clear majority.
On the third story of a building near the watchtower, a figure clad in a dark gray outfit emerged onto a balcony and scanned the night before quickly scrambling up the side of the building and onto its slate roof - blue by day, but gray by night.
Once atop the roof, the figure scanned the night before acting. A black mask concealing all of its face but his eyes, gray cloak fluttering in the night breeze, occasionally leaving a sheathed sword and collection of daggers visible to any hypothetical onlookers.
As soon as it felt secure, the figure crouched down and began sliding along the edge of the roof, gaining speed as it neared the river side edge, then, just before it would have hit the gutter ringing the roof, it sprung up and out, soaring towards the water, one arm outstretched, but the other grasping an edge of its cloak.
As it neared the water, the figure made an odd move with its free hand, kicked at the air and turned slightly, just enough that it could lash out with the cloak and catch part of a lamppost.
A beggar in the street below looked up from the trash it had been exploring and observed the figure’s passage, an audience of one as it watched the aerialist spin twice, once around an arm of the post, and then around the post itself, to redirect its momentum towards the bridge. The beggar paused for a moment to clap in pleasure at the athletic display before resuming his search for food or discarded valuables.
The cloaked figure landed on the roof of the bridge’s main guard tower, the noise of its landing perfectly timed with the changing of the guards below to be overlooked by all but the most observant, none of whom glanced the right way to catch the furtive figure.
The figure waited until the guards relieved of their duty for the night left, most of them headed towards the poor side of the city, before moving again.
This time it dropped down the side of the guard post, barely touching the walls enough to control its speed of descent, slipping below the bridge to access the network of wires and ropes - dubbed by some ‘the thieves’ bridge' - below the stone structure.
Moving with a practiced speed and grace that bordered on the superhuman, the figure navigated this ‘under bridge' fast enough to remain just a little behind the group of seven guards doing one last foot patrol before calling it a night.
When the guards reached the poor side, they stopped in the more modest station there - a station only staffed during daylight hours, but also often used by local food merchants to drop off stuff that failed to sell that day as a treat to the watch. From the sounds, either the beggars had been through before, or the merchants had been less generous than usual, and the patrol barely spent five minutes here before moving on.
As soon as they were out of sight, the figure under the bridge slipped out of concealment, scaled the watch station, and once on its roof, again launched itself into the night, once more using a lamp post to redirect its ‘flight’ and landing on a nearby thatch roof.
This was far quieter than the slate on the other side of the river.
The buildings here were even closer together than in the wealthier part of town and the lone figure moved from rooftop to rooftop fairly quickly, noting at least two others on similar nocturnal adventures.
Finally, it found its destination, a three-story building with a wordless sign out front depicting a massive yellow creature with four arms. Two arms ended in claws while the other two held items - one a skewer of food, the other a tankard. Sound and light spilled out of the ground floor, but the cloaked figure’s attention was on the higher floors. Most of the rooms there were dark, but thin light, either from guttering lanterns or single candles, flickered in three. Counting windows, the cloaked figure identified its target, moved back to the center of the roof it was on, and ran, leaping out at the edge, soaring across.
For the first time that night, the figure’s aim was off, and it landed on a balcony adjacent to its target with a slight curse. It easily covered the distance to the correct window, and pulled it open.
A balding man with a hawkish nose and thick, dark eyebrows sat tallying figures in a thick book. When the window opened, the figure jumped and almost fell out of its chair. He was a short, heavyset man with thin lips and the ink-stained fingers of a bookkeeper or an academic. The room smelled of sweat, burnt tallow, and sour wine.
When the cloaked figure slipped into the room, the man frowned, but said nothing, and carefully set blotting paper over the page he’d been writing.
A voice, masculine and fairly young-sounding, came from the masked figure, stating blandly: “it is done.”
Before the other could react, the cloaked man pulled a small pouch off of his belt and tossed it onto the table where the other had been working.
The pouch landed with a wet thud.
In a thin voice with a shrill edge to it, the balding man asked: “what is this?”
“The proof you asked for. Guards were coming so I did not have time to … clean it. Do you have the money?”
Nervously, hawk-nose picked up the pouch, opened it, and went pale as the object slipped from his fingers. A spot of red liquid splashed out. “The whole finger?” He gasped.
“The whole payment?” Was the only reply.
“Oh, ah, I, ah, don’t carry that much with me. I have a little over half in the chest over there,” the other replied, pleasantly surprised to not be stuttering.
The cloaked figure examined the chest. “Looks like a needle trap in the lock, but not engaged.” Quickly he popped it open and saw a mass of coins inside. He sifted through them, then closed the box and hefted it.
“A little less than half, I would wager, though the value of the box itself brings it closer to half.” He took a small wooden card out of a pouch and tossed it to the balding figure. “Get the rest to this address by nightfall tomorrow or the next time you see me, I will be unmasked…”
The man in the room glanced nervously at the pouch on his table, muttered “understood,” and looked back up.
He was alone in the room.