TotW 260: Souls
You have ONE vote.
Submission 1 The Fate of Those Who Plot(Traditional Folk Tale – circa the 17th year of the Great and Glorious Peace)
The rain thundered down from the heavens in torrents, flowing from the pristine marble of the great city to the muck filled gutters of the lower city, driving all honest folk inside. The rain did not cleanse however, it brought the scum of the underworld out of the sewers and onto the streets where they stalked the alleys and temple squares alike, searching for prey.
Faint murmurs emanated from the tavern, belonging to men who believed themselves to be rich and powerful. The shadowy figure crouched across the street from the inn knew better, the voices merely belonged to men who did not know that they were already dead. They planned to betray their sovereign emperor, and thought to create a confederation with the Guild of Merchants. The man did not hate these traitors, but he had an assignment and he would see each and every one of them dead before the night was out. Treason could not go unpunished, he was the tool of his emperor’s will.
With a groan the oak doors of the tavern opened and the fools furtively skittered out, akin to the rats underfoot. A beastly pig of a man dawdled out after them and sniffed loudly in the damp chill.“This blasted weather, why the hell did we decide to meet here? Where are my damned servants?” His fellow conspirators paid him no mind, anxious at the prospect of wandering these streets at night and eager to return to their mansions. The sack of suet was the first to die, his blood spilt onto the cobblestones from the rent in his oversized belly as he struggled in vain against deaths embrace. The deaths of all of these traitors would be ingrained in the memory of all those who sought to take power for themselves. Each man’s life was extracted from him in ways more terrible and merciless than the previous, until only one was left slinking through the city.
The assassin stalked his prey across the Great Market, towards the prey’s palace that dangerously straddled the divide between the Merchant’s District and the Noble’s Quarters, the vermin thought too highly of itself. The assassin observed his quarry halt some metres away. Realisation dawned upon the conspirator as he froze facing the legendary assassin of Riege. “W-w-wait, I c-ca-can explain! I was serving – that’s it, I was serving my emperor! I was told to enter a treaty with t-those scum back there! I swear, I did it out of loyalty! Out of loyalty I tell you.” The last act the man ever did out of loyalty was to inhale the stink of his blood as he collapsed to the ground.
The next morning the bodies were found slumped in alleyways, stripped of their wealth and clothes. The next morning the citizens of the Empire continued to thank the Emperor for his peaceful and prosperous rule.
Submission 2
I am assaulted by a word as I walk down the rubbish strewn street, a word that hammers into my skull screaming to be let free.
Memory.
I remember the days when this city was gilded gem of the west. I remember when I walked the cobbles of this very street and inhaled air infused with the smells of roasted meat, of animal spoor and exotic incense, and the scents of humanity in all it’s glory.
I inhaled the scents of life.
I remember when the lords of this land ruled supreme, and poets and playwrights flocked to this city and formed guild after guild to pay homage to their great kings. Lions they were hailed as, valiant spirit-kin to the majestic tawny beasts that roam the southern plains.
But lions die, and so do men.
The last king of this great and noble city was no lion, more an effete sop consigned to his territory by treaty and whim of the southern lords alike. Almost immediately after his death those godless southern bastards, the Conferderationof Al-Hassor, swept in and claimed this once noble and as their own. Even now they call it the crown jewel of Al-hassor, and I suppose it fits. After all, a jewel of coloured glass suits a crown of brass, does it not?
Submission 3
Vice Pheasant Viceroy MacPlumb was nervously pacing outside the Head Eagle’s office. He was the bringer of bad news, and being in lower middle management, he knew the phrase “don’t shoot the messenger” would mean very little to the receiver of said message.
A small bell tinkled outside the door, and a bored looking secretary sighed as she stood up to open the door and let Viceroy in. The office was tall and menacing, with trophies of old hunts and raids lined along the walls. The walk from the door to the desk itself was impossibly long, Viceroy thought, as the seconds ticked away. Behind the massive oak desk was a man much too small for everything around him.
“Liceroy McPlopp?”, he enquired in a nasal and annoying voice.
“Viceroy MacPlumb sir, yessir”, the shaking Vice Pheasant corrected. “I’m your Vice Pheasant sir, you’ve known me for years.”
“Protocol must be kept!”, the little man snapped, and turned a page in the book the size of Viceroy’s home. “You’ve got news?”
“Yes sir. Sir..there is news of a new guild plaguing the city. A trader’s guild.”
“WHAT?! But the Left,- Right,- and Centercompany has monopoly on trade! A royal decree! How come this rabble hasn’t been put to the sword?”
“A-a-apparently some lawyer found a loophole that means they are allowed to function within the law as long as they call themselves a merchant confederation, rather than company! The king has allowed them to trade within the city walls as long as none of them ever refer to themselves as a company.”
Viceroy quickly ducked as the Head Eagle threw a knife in his general direction. The little man was breathing unevenly and shaking with rage. “Never in living memory have we been so unfairly treated!”.
“Sir! Inhale, exhale, inhale..”, the Vice Pheasant dodged a stray bullet and quickly shouted. “Sir! I believe I’ve found a solution!”.
The smaller man slowly lowered the throwing axe he had been aiming, and asked “Well? What is it?!”.
“We tell them we want to trade-PLEASE LISTEN! We ask to sign a treaty with them. An agreement so long and confusing, with such small handwriting, they’ll never read through the whole thing. We’ll get the Head of Ornithological Departments and Other Things Related to Creatures That Dwell in the Air as Well as Snakes and Other Reptiles Because Birdlegs are Kind of Creepy, Like Snakes to sign it seven times, randomly throughout the document, and we’ll make it look really real by driving a hard bargain, to make them think they’ve won it in a fair fight. And somewhere along the hundreds of pages of drivel, we’ll refer to them as a company rather than a confederation. They’ll sign, thinking they’re making the deal of a century, and we’ll see them all hanged.”
“By God..you’re only lower middle management? I’ll make sure you’re getting promoted to central middle management by the end of this fiscal year, or my name isn’t Patronominous Trout!”
Best of luck to all of our entrants!