Fear and Greed
The underworld of Elsan flickers in an awakened firelight. A kingdom hidden within a kingdom where fear and greed reign supreme.
Thiel’s forgotten foundations. Guided by candlelight, the army descends through the ancient passageways. Shoulder to shoulder, they march, cutting through the earth in wide lines of four. Candlelight flickers in their shadowy eyes, illuminating a myriad of faces from every walk of life. Butcher, baker, tanner, fuller, smith, and whore.
A rare welcome breeze cuts through the passageway as a giant colony of bats sews through the shadows. On serrated wings, they duck, dive, spin, and weave in erratic flight.
The people descend deeper underground, marching on a pathway of giant megalithic polygonal blocks of perfect-fitting flat stone. Enormous stone block walls tower above the procession, the stones the size of carriages, placed without mortar, climbing up to the dark unknown. The army marches through a giant stone archway into a blast of bright amber light. They stand as insects amidst the forgotten ruins of another time, amidst towering pillars that climb far out of sight. Murmurs of wonder and awe echo from the pyramidal chamber walls. The amassing multitude stares in amazement as they marvel at the works of the ancient great hall. They stand mesmerized by the magic of the great throne room.
The Beggar King sits on Ana’s ancient, monumental throne, perching like an insect on a mountainside. He then stands, a god-made flesh in a world hewn from cold, hard, gigantic stone. He licks his chapped lips and runs a hand through his shaggy beard. His deep-set eyes sit above a hard-mouthed grimace.
The gathering congregation gazes up at him, enveloped in awed silence.
“My rats,” The Beggar King’s voice resonates, booming through the stone pyramid.
The crowd erupts in cheers and thunderous applause. Ancient dust rains down on them, then settles on their tattered garments.
“I bring news from those above.” The Beggar King gazes upwards through the dark void of the pyramid with beseeching eyes. “News from them cunts who deem themselves better than us.” A broad, mocking smile falls onto his sweaty face.
A roar of enraged support erupts from the assembled mob, their discontent transforming into a chorus of vile curses.
“Cock sucking maggots. Curse the filthy, rotten cunts. Inbred swine’s.”
The Beggar King lowers his arms, signaling for silence. “Curse them? There are no curses left that can match their treachery.” He paces around the throne seat, allowing his anger to build. “Some would sugarcoat my words to make them sweeter for your ears.” He chews on a mouthful of snot before spitting it down to the floor beneath him. Percy steps on the massive wad of green phlegm as it splatters down near his feet.
“Speak, sire. Tell us the truth, o’magnificent king,” a voice implores from the mob.
The Beggar King flexes his broad, boarish shoulders; his voice comes soft from a stone face with blazing eyes. “The king above will betray us to the Galt’s, gifting them our rightful lands.” He slams his fist onto the giant stone arm rest, then points his stout finger downwards, towards the crowd. “We scrape, dig, and scavenge because we ain’t got no land of our own. Yet he will grant a portion of our land to those goat-fucking Galt’s.” In disgust, he spits out another glob of phlegm.
Mutters of discontent transform into growls of anger. The atmosphere in the ancient chamber simmers like a bubbling cauldron.
The Beggar King extends his arms wide as he points up through the tip of the pyramid to the world above. “Every man, woman, and child gathered here today is as Thielian as those above. They live a life of luxury while we swim in rivers of their shit, starve in the winter, and clean their fucking homes and streets.”
The furious mob unleashes torrents of abuse and hatred.
“That’s the truth of it, and there ain’t no honey sweet enough to mask the taste of treachery.” The King above has set forth his plan. What next? Aye?”
Wide, angry eyes stare back up at him, hanging on his words, caught in his moment.
“Are we going to be slaves to some Galt lords, sowing golden buttons onto their fine silks? Polish their little shoes, tan their leather and boil their lime. Pick their leeches and carry their messages for a half a copper Drake?”
The mob bristles, anger swelling and hatred spewing in discontent.
The Beggar King then sits on the edge of the giant megalithic throne and hangs his head.
The crowd falls silent.
“I ask your forgiveness, my children.” The Beggar King’s somber eyes wander across the conclave. “Too long have we toiled in their squalor. For too long have we served and neglected our own.” His shoulders slump, and his head falls to his chest. “I have waited and watched while my people suffer." His words spill as a whisper that echoes from the stillness of the giant stone walls.
Humble and meek, The Beggar King raises his eyes to the heavens and then down to his flock. A single tear runs down his cheek and into his hedgerow beard, and a long shudder shakes through his body. “I’ve too have slept on their half-frozen rivers of piss and shit and skimmed off the raw sewage to quench my thirst.” His voice rumbles as it catches in his throat. “I’ve cleaned the barracks of East Gate, shoveling barrowful’s of their steaming, sloppy, stinking shit.”
The Beggar King stands tall and angry; his voice spits with vehement hatred, roaring down to the mob, spittle flying from his mouth. “I've had enough of those above, and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to take back what is rightfully ours.”
The congregation erupts in wild cheers and mass celebration. The Beggar King raises his arms and fierce eyes to the heavens, then stares upon his flock. “Now, my people, we shall exact vengeance upon all those who have enslaved us. We will reclaim what has been taken and seize what is owed. Every rock, stone, and blade of grass.”
The congregation roars with furious anger, a tempestuous tide, standing shoulder to shoulder. They sway back and forth, shrieking for vengeance.
“Burn them! Cut them up! Take back our land! Take their homes! Hang them all! Bury the cunts. Flay em all.”
“Yes, my children. We will do all that and more.” The Beggar King’s boldness turns the crowd into a simmering sea of silent wrath. “Percy, bring the gold.” The Beggar King calls down from his grand throne to his trusted right-hand man.
“Yes, sire,” Percy’s lisp whistles from his lips, his long, bedraggled hair hanging to cover his gaunt face. The lanky man reveals a mouthful of oversized teeth, with a smile reserved only for sex pests. He sets off in a gangly jog, his willowy legs moving with the grace of a newborn foal, his head nodding to one side. His dainty shoes clatter on the stone floor as he trots.
The congregation parts like waves on a rock to make way for the stumbling pony as he makes his way through the mob. A chorus of laughter washes through the onlookers.
The Beggar King sighs; unable to watch, he places his giant palm over his eyes. He shakes his head. “Thirteen Hells, Percy! Get them to bring the gold, you fool.”
Percy skids to a pinpoint stop and finds himself surrounded by hundreds of mocking faces. He double-claps his hands as his hissing words whistle through misshapen teeth. “Bring the gold.”
A chest of gold emerges from the chamber’s eerie shadows, hauled by six burly youths drenched in sweat. Murmurs of weighty anticipation ripple in the parting crowd as the chest comes to a halt with a resounding thud. The encircling mob takes a stride backwards as the henchmen push them back to make a circle as an army of eager eyes and feet jostles for position.
“Stand back, rats!” The Beggar King bellows with a commanding bark. “If a single hand touches that gold, I’ll hack it off and shove it up your filthy arsehole. You’ll be shitting through your own fingers for the rest of your miserable life.”
Thousands of heads spin as one to look up to their underworld king, then spin back in unison as Percy leans over the magnificent chest, his wiry fingers fidgeting with the clasp until it opens with a loud click.
A collective gasp washes through the ancient chamber as golden light spills from the chest. Murmurs turn into giddy laughter and joyous whoops.
Percy reaches into his chest, steadying himself on his bowed legs. His spindly hands resurface from the golden sea, clutching a single bar of pure, gleaming gold. He raises the bar above his head for the enraptured mob to behold.
A collective intake of breath echoes within the pyramid as the congregation falls into an awed silence.
Percy lowers the golden bar and cradles it like a precious infant in his arms. He presents it to a small, slack-jawed youth. The boy’s cautious fingers inch forward, resting on the golden bar. With a reassuring nod from Percy, the youth strokes the golden bar like a cat.
One by one, the congregation leans forward, joining in to stroke the gold. Their enraptured faces shine with hope and greed.
Percy places the gold back in the chest.
The Beggar King limbers with a loud grunt and shakes his thick neck from side to side. His unwavering eyes stare down at his motley crowd. His voice bellows and barks from deep within his chest.
“Bowyers!”
"Yes, O’Gracious King!”
A small smattering of raised voices answers the king’s call.
“Thieves Guild!”
An eruption of answers fills the chamber.
“Chandlers, masons, smiths, tanners, fullers, cobbles, weavers, butchers, bakers!”
“Yes, wonderous, magnificent king!” The chamber roars to life.
The Beggar King lingers and makes his last call. “Whores!”
"Yes, gracious king!” Giddy giggles chuckle through the devoted mass.
The underworld king smiles through a mouthful of rotting teeth. “On my word as your king, half of that gold is yours. Let it be known that I am generous.” The Beggar King rumbles from his giant stone throne.
A unified chant erupts from the congregation as they turn to face the throne. “You are generous, o’magnificent king of gold.”
“The gold shall be shared, for we are all equal.” The king’s heavy-set eyes gaze down upon his followers. He points down to the congregation as he strolls around his giant stone throne seat. “Soon, we will claim the city, every stone, every home, and every blade of grass. Those who value their lives will serve us as we have served them. Those who stand in our way will suffer, as we have suffered. Our greatness draws near.” He points to the open chest of gold. “The hand that feeds is the hand that leads, and I will lead us to victory.”
The mob erupts into a wild frenzy, roaring with pent-up rage, their eyes filled with greed.
Percy nods to himself in admiration of the underworld king, as every soul in the chamber is captured in his empty promise.
A burly youth drags an enormous sack of grain, branded with the seal of The Order of The One. His gruff voice wheezes through a mouthful of sweat as he catches his breath. “My king, the grain arrived at sunset through the east sluicegate,” he pants, resting his palms on his knees, exhausted, before slinking back into the crowd.
Percy reaches into his shabby tailcoat, rummaging in the inner pockets. Then, with an elaborate flourish, he retrieves a small flick knife. His blade slices through the woven grain sack, then golden grains spill forth, scattering with a rolling clatter onto the dusty stone floor. The flow of grain comes to a sudden stop, and Percy looks up at the king with a wide, gap-toothed grin. His spindly fingers reach into the bag, and he pulls out a short sword blade. He lets out a high-pitched yelp as the edge of the blade nicks his finger. A slow trickle of blood meanders down his fingertip, plopping onto the floor. Percy holds the short sword up for The Beggar King to see. “Nice and sharp, my king.”
The congregation buzzes with hushed conversations as Percy passes the blade to an old washerwoman. Her ancient eyes wander over the blade before she passes it to the man beside her. From the grain sack, Percy retrieves another blade, then another, and another. Ten short swords circulate through the hands of the mob.
“My children,” The Beggar King calls out. “Hear me, trust me, for I have planned this turn for a lifetime.” He points to the bag of grain. “There are two thousand bags of grain, with a blade for every man, woman, and child.” He directs their attention to the spilled, empty sack. “Percy, have the grain spread throughout the slums in every guild house, whorehouse, and tavern.”
“Yes, o’ wise king.” In a series of repeating bows. Percy shuffles backward, then turns on his heel and canters through the crowd, nodding like a dog chasing a rabbit. His tongue hangs out as he gallops into the shadows.
The Beggar King glowers at his audience and says, “Not a single sack of grain shall be opened until I issue the command. We must exercise patience, my loyal children. Soon, the city will be unguarded, and only then will we seize what belongs to us.”
The congregation hangs on every word of The Beggar King, their eyes filled with unwavering loyalty and greed.
The Beggar King points back towards the ancient passageways. “Ascend to the surface and let the whispers spread like wildfire. We cannot tolerate a single Thielian soldier within The Slaughters. Those useless shit-stains have wandering eyes, loose tongues, and inquisitive hands. They have no place among us.”
“Yes, o’ wondrous king,” the ecstatic chorus resounds, filling the grand pyramid with their fervor.
Dust descends like a gentle rain shower as The Beggar King settles himself upon his imposing stone throne. He perches like an insect on a mighty boulder, he observes his legion file out through the ancient passageways.
The mob scurries back to their decaying timber homes, whispering tales of impending war and treachery. Two thousand bags of grain find refuge, awaiting the imminent dawn of transformation.
Captain Alden’s polished armor catches the low glimmer of flickering lanterns as he leads his off-duty city-watch battalion through the labyrinthine streets of The Slaughters. They thud, marching along the cobbled lanes, sloshing through the bloody sewage towards the notorious tavern, The Rose & Cock.
"Hurry up if you will, gents. The missus won't be pleased if I'm not back before sup,” Captain Alden quips with a pang of guilt, yet he is well-spoken and polite. “Besides, I want to spend some time with Isi before she’s tucked in for the night.”
"Congratulations on the new recruit, captain!" A gruff soldier elbows him as they march, his voice with a hint of envy. "Hope she didn't inherit your impressive nose, sir," another soldier chimes in, to an outburst of restrained laughter from the marching pack.
Alden rubs his massive bulbous nose and says, "Thankfully, Isi has her mother's looks and charm."
"Suppose we'll have to have a few ales to welcome our newest recruit into our ranks tonight." Says, another.
"Indeed, a toast to new beginnings and many sleepless nights.” Captain Alden pats the soldier on the shoulder, shaking his head.
“I can’t imagine you as a father, captain,” says a soldier's voice, straggling at the rear of the group.
“Ha, I look after you rabble every day,” Alden calls back over his shoulder, “so it can’t be that difficult. Now imagine that, but with a screaming baby at dusk and dawn.”
“Sounds like thirsty work to me, sir,” another soldier says from the jovial pack, jostling as they walk.
“Damn right, it's thirsty work. I’ll stay for a couple of rounds, but I’ll be in the doghouse if I’m not home to put Isi to bed.” Alden stops beneath the sign of The Rose & Cock and holds the door open for the soldiers. “Besides, I’d rather not stay around and witness what you lot are capable of.”
They bundle through the tavern door, where a chorus of clinking tankards and raucous laughter greets them. Dice roll and coins rattle on tables, and whores patrol the common rooms on swaying hips. Thick clouds of harsh smoke hang like a curtain in the low-lit light. The barman glowers as a rat scurries along the bar top and into the manicured hands of Violet, she reads the message on the rat’s leg. Violet then with pushed-up breasts, takes the city watch soldiers to a quiet table at the rear of the tavern.
The city watch soldiers jostle for position around the long trestle table, the floorboards creaking under their heavy feet. A group of scantily clad whores with flushed cheeks and long, brushed-out curls arrive carrying pewter tankards of ale. Their deep v-cut silk corsets push up their busts, and the rears of their silk gowns are completely open, revealing soft plummy buttocks housed in white silk stockings and suspenders. They shuffle onto the benches between the soldiers, draping their arms over their shoulders and resting their other exploring hands on the soldiers' laps.
Captain Alden leans into the table and raises his tankard, “Gentlemen, to Isabella.” The soldiers chink pewters. “To Isi,” they toast in unison, then chug down the first round without taking a breath. Alden signals for another round, and the banter and tales flow as freely as the ale.
“What about that time you headbutted, Torrington?” The table of soldiers busts into boisterous laughter, their merry faces flushed from several rounds of ale.
Captain Alden buries his head in his hands, then raises a finger to address his men: “The Lord Commander walked into my forehead, gentlemen. A simple mishap in the training yard.” His voice slurs, and his face is a jolly shade of red.
A drunken voice slurs, "The swamy git deserved it, sir," drawing unanimous agreement from the group.
"Here, here,” the soldiers declare, slamming their tankards onto the table and spilling ale in all directions.
The tavern is at fever pitch; drunks stagger through the common rooms with boisterous voices echoing against the timber walls.
“Now, now, gents. Lord Commander Torrington is a fine fellow. We served together in—." A knife explodes through Captain Alden’s eye from the back of his head, his eyeball dangling like a chewed-up grape from the tip of the blade. His mouth continues to regale his tale with a bemused look, the world tilting sideways as he slumps forward onto the table in a pool of blood gushing from his eye socket.
The table of city watch guards sits in a moment of stunned silence as the whores' slit their throats from behind. The long trestle table flows with a crimson tide, seeping between the tankards and lapping against their faces as the guard’s slump forward, drowning in their own blood. The blood drips onto the battered timber floor as the tavern empties, and the patrons run out into The Slaughters lanes, where city watch soldiers dangle from wicked nooses suspended from the slum’s crooked timber frames.
In the whorehouses, where soldiers bounce their balls on soft arses, silent blades slice their throats from behind, bleeding them dry in the slaughterous night.
The world of grime and crime comes alive as thousands of beggar rats scurry back to their rotting timber homes, whispering tales of treachery. The Slaughter’s taverns empty as the slums take up the first fight, searching out city watch soldiers to extinguish their lives.
In the depths of the night, swords swing, axes cleave, daggers bite flesh, and royal buildings ignite as two thousand bags of holy grain find their way to safety, waiting patiently for the time of change. The streets run red with rivers of blood and fountains of flame.
The Slaughters lives up to its reputation.