The forgotten city of Elsan flickers in awakened firelight, deep beneath the soil of Thiel. A city beneath a city, a pyramid concealed within Thiel’s great hill. Elsan, the ancient megalithic underworld, is bound in eternal darkness where shadows reign supreme.
labyrinth maze of forsaken streets and boundless passageways beneath Thiel’s foundations. A soft, golden glow draws its attention, urging it to scurry through a gap in the polygonal wall and enter a world of enchanting light. In this illuminated space, the rat beholds a vast expanse of a megalithic chamber, hewn from giant granite blocks, carved at right angles, and placed with precision into the hard bedrock. Endless rows of colossal pillars ascend towards the soaring vaulted ceiling, while shadowed, arched alcoves line each wall. The chambers’ hidden recesses are laden with plundered gold, precious stones, statues, and paintings. The thieves’ den, the safehouse of the underworld, where fire-lit torches illuminate the giant stone walls.
A group of musicians plays from a gloomy alcove, their instruments strumming a euphonic melody. The musical flow is gentle yet vibrant, with ever-changing rhythms and tempos, filling the chamber with tranquility.
The rat’s ears prick up at a metallic knock and straining groan, followed by a thin, whistling sound. Thwack. A crossbow bolt lodges into the rat’s head.
“Good shot, Percy. One less fucking rat, we’ve got enough vermin to deal with,” bellows the guttural voice of The Beggar King.
A boar of a man, The Beggar King sits bald and hairy as an elderly arse, with a thick chestnut beard that hides his rampant acne. His pig-like nose is too small, with wide nostrils, and his face is round as the moon, glistening with meaty sweat and housing unforgiving eyes. Despite his fat chops, his lips are thin and bitter. A glorified pig in a blanket, around his broad, boar-like shoulders, drapes an elaborate red velvet gown with a white fox pelt at the neck. His impatient fat fingers drum on his fat legs as his rickety wooden throne creaks under his immense bulk.
“Thank you, sire,” Percy whistles back through his gapped teeth. He stands tall and gangly as a willow tree. His dark, greasy hair falls to his bony shoulders, and his face is tight and pinched, with skeletal cheeks. His ratty eyes peer between a long and bent nose, marked by two gnarled breaks. Touched with jaundice, his shifty eyes are rimmed with shades of yellow and brown. His dry and anemic skin snows onto the shoulders of his black tailcoat. He lopes over to the rat, his thin, spidery legs several inches longer than his trousers. He yanks the crossbow bolt from the rat’s head with a squelch. Percy totters back to the king on feet too small for his branch-like frame, placing the crossbow down with a thud onto a simple wooden trestle table.
Upon the table sits an elaborate array of food, all served on stolen gold and silver platters. The cutlery shines in the dim candlelight, while a whole roasted piglet sizzles in its own fat, and a baked river fish swims in a pool of lemon butter sauce. A fat, roasted goose sits nestled amidst plates of bread, cheeses, cured hams, and fruit preserves. The aromas of sizzling pork fat, citrus, rosemary, and wild herbs linger in the dank subterranean air.
“Is the luncheon to your liking, sire?” Percy’s skeletal fingers tap together in eager anticipation. “The roasted pork and goose are pilfered from the palace kitchens.” Percy licks his hungry lips, his hungry eyes fixated on the crispy pig skin.
“Not bad, Percy.” The Beggar King’s fat fingers grab a handful of squishy roasted pork belly, then he slams it into his gaping gullet. Mouthfuls of warm pork fat cling to his hedgerow beard as he licks the juices from his filthy, sausage-like fingers. He dunks a thick slice of bread into a bowl of applesauce and shovels it, palm first, into his foul mouth. “This bread’s as dry as a dead whore’s cunt. Needs more butter.”
The Beggar King gestures towards a dark archway on his left, from which a procession of scrawny vagrants emerges, their dirty, bare feet slapping on the stone floor as they march forth, heads bowed. The vagrants come to stand before the trestle table as their heads raise to behold their new master.
The Beggar King’s look is dark and broody, his mouth clamped tight and pinched at the corners as his impatient fingers drum loudly on the table.
The vagrants approach the ramshackle pulpit, one by one, carrying tithes for their new swine king. The first, a boy, presents a small bag of gold Drakes with a chinking thud, and The Beggar King grunts in appreciation, "Thieves Guild," while the boy nods and kneels in gratitude.
A young man steps forward, offering a silver necklace adorned with emeralds and sapphires. The Beggar King directs, "Send this one to The Planks, Percy. Smugglers Guild," and the man nods, kneeling with his head bowed.
A third, a woman, presents a rough-cut diamond the size of her fist. The Beggar King nods with an obvious leer, “Percy, send her to Violet and have her put to work in the knocking shops." Percy acknowledges the order, and the woman kneels before the ramshackle throne.
The procession continues silently, each vagrant donating riches, each assigned a guild, trade, or order, until all kneel before the great pile of food and wealth.
"Rise, my rats, rise," commands The Beggar King, lifting both arms high with a forced, porky smile.
The music transforms into a light, lilting, bewitching melody as they obediently stand.
"You are now my loyal subjects, and you will learn and master trades," he declares. "Safe in my kingdom's loving embrace, bathed, clothed and trained. Housed, fed, and wanting for nothing. My precious little rats will reward such kingly kindness with whispers, tithes, and riches."
The Beggar King looks each vagrant in the eye, caring and compassionate, as the music shifts into a chorus of happy melodies.
"Come forth and feast at my table." The Beggar King beckons with open arms, and the vagrant’s approach, their eyes wide and bellies rumbling. He slices them each a thick slab of shining, tender roasted goose and juicy pork belly with crackling, each receiving a chunk of fresh bread and a fresh, ripe fruit. They devour the food like maggots on a carcass, their rotting teeth gnashing through tender meat and sucking on fruits with loud slurps as sweet juices run down filthy fingers. Not a scrap is wasted.
"Percy, see my subjects well-fed and watered; fatten them up. Have them branded and put to work. My kingdom needs coin," The Beggar King commands, his voice as hard as stone.
"As you command, gracious king," Percy responds, clapping his hands. The slaves file out of the chamber as Percy shepherds them into the shadows.
The Beggar King returns to his feast, gorging on meat, cracking bones and guzzling wine and ale like water.
The music plays dark melodies, erupting like a volcanic crescendo that flows to the man mountain of lard.
The self-made king, a god of the underworld, exploiter of man, women, child, and beast. The Beggar King, a man as unforgiving as the butcher's block.
“Sire, Old Mags has requested an audience.” Percy bows, groveling, as he reenters the chamber.
“Alright, send him in.” His voice is muffled, spitting clumps of chewed-up meat.
A frail old man emerges from the shadows wearing filthy, tattered clothes that hang from his brittle frame. “Sire.” His voice is low and tired, clinging to life. “My wife and I can no longer trade as we once did.” He approaches the throne, limping on his right leg. His round brown woolen hat is clutched tight with both withered hands at his stomach. Nervous, he hobbles before The Beggar King, his stick-thin arms protruding from a sleeveless shirt, his back bent like an arching bridge. “Our firstborn died a few summers back, then our second and third suffered the same fate. We try to get by, but the truth is, we can’t pay you anymore. We fall upon your mercy, sire.” The old man sobs, his frail body shaking.
The Beggar King stands with brooding eyes, deep in thought. His voice softens. “Alright. So be it. Percy, find Mags and his wife new lodging. See that they are cleaned up and rehoused somewhere clean and warm. Keep them well fed and let them want for nothing.”
The Beggar King raises his right hand in a silencing command. His palm faced outward, his two forefingers together, aligned like pillars of resolve, his decision sealed.
“Thank you, sire.” The old man beams a toothless smile, his tears of joy flowing. His voice cracks and croaks. “May The One bless you, o’gracious king.”
The Beggar King strides before the frail old man, his gentle touch resting on the old man’s thin head of gray hair. “Let it be said that I am gracious.” The Beggar King holds out his right hand, bearing a simple golden ring marked with the palm of an open hand.
The old man kisses the ring and shuffles out of the king’s hall.
“Next.” The Beggar King turns to the food-laden table, picks up a carving knife, and spears himself a thick, juicy sausage.
“Sire, the slaver from Naresh,” Percy’s voice slithers through his teeth.
A gang of youths as rough as sandpaper, armed with dull blades, emerges from the shadowy chamber entrance, their faces or arms branded with The Beggar King’s seal - an open hand is inked or burned into their skin. The gang kicks the slave merchant into the chamber, stamping their mucky boots onto his fine silk robes. His eyes are blindfolded with a tattered black scarf.
The Beggar King stands, his timber throne groaning, and calls out to Percy. "See, the lads paid. Have them fed with meat stew. Give them the good stuff with a token for one of the knocking shops. Let it be said that I am kind.”
Percy bows deeply. “As you command, o’kind king.”
The gang of youth’s hoots and hollers in excitement, and they strut back into the shadows.
The Beggar King strides forward on his tree-trunk legs and tears off the Nareshi man’s blindfold.
The slaver blinks, adjusting to the light with a startled expression. He stands with his hands behind him, unsure of what to say. His words escape his mouth along with a mouthful of shining white teeth: “I am—”
"Shut your pie hole," The Beggar King bellows in rage. “I don't give two shits who you are, you sniveling little rat cunt.”
The slaver falls to his knees as The Beggar King approaches. His black hair, slick with oil, is well-trimmed and combed back. His skin is tanned like leather; he is a man of means from the west.
The Beggar King wipes his carving blade on his crimson gown with fastidious swipes. He towers above the slave merchant, his voice rumbling like thunder. “I hear you picked some pretty little flowers from my slums. Offered them coin for a better life. It takes a brave or stupid man to steal from me.”
The music falls into an ominous trudge, low and slow, blending into the sounds of gentle trickles of flowing sewage and stagnant water meandering through the chambers’ hidden canals.
The slaver looks up at The Beggar King, his Nareshi accent rolling his words. “Pale skin is well-revered in Naresh, and such boys and girls fetch a handsome price. They came with me willingly for a few coins. I did not steal from you; I bought what came freely. A simple misunderstanding.”
The Beggar King relaxes his shoulders, a resigned smile on his face. His voice is soft and jovial. “I see. Yes, a simple misunderstanding. Bought and paid for? This sounds like a fair trade to me.”
“Yes, a fair trade. I assure you; it won’t happen again. You will be reimbursed, of course,” the Nareshi slaver nods, forcing a wide, apprehensive smile. “One thousand gold Drakes for the simple misunderstanding. If I may go?”
“You may go.” The Beggar King nods.
The Nareshi slaver clasps his pristine hands together in gratitude.
“How many of my loyal subjects did you buy?” The Beggar King’s voice rumbles like an approaching storm.
“Seven. Just seven.” The Nareshi slaver fidgets, nervous.
The Beggar King extends his right hand, offering his simple golden ring engraved with an open palm.
Unsure of what to do, the slaver moves to kiss the ring. Quick as a fox, The Beggar King grabs the merchant by his throat, his voice thick with malice. “Seven, you say? Give me your fucking hands.”
The slave merchant cowers and begs, “I assure you; they came willingly. I have gold. Name your price.” The slaver sobs, snot running down his chin, spittle drooling from his quivering mouth.
“Too fucking right, it won’t.” The Beggar King’s voice is firm as a rock, with each word emphasized. “Give. Me. Your. Fucking. Hands.”
The Nareshi slaver claws to escape the king’s grip, but eventually raises his trembling hands in slow, resigned acceptance.
The Beggar King seizes both wrists and, one by one, snaps every finger on each hand.
Crack. Crack. Snap.
The slaver cries out in agonized hysteria, pleading incoherently and choking on pain. His body writhes on the floor, clutching his contorted fingers, snapped at right angles, broken like bunches of fragile twigs.
The Beggar King grabs the slaver by his hair and pulls him to his knees. He uses his carving knife and severs seven fingers at will, cutting through flesh and sawing through the bones. Blood pumps out of the slaver’s hands, pooling around his severed fingers on the floor. The slaver’s screams fade into silent convulsions.
The Beggar King slaps the slaver back into consciousness until the slaver awakens, pissing himself, the stream of warm piss pooling with the blood on the floor.
“Get that Nareshi fuckwit out of my sight and have his entire face branded with the hot iron.” The Beggar King bellows like a clap of thunder.
Percy gives a deep bow. "As you command, o’just king,” he beckons to the dark recesses of the chamber, where a pair of palm-branded thugs emerge.
"He’s seen you, sire. Should we have his eyes out?" grunts one thug built like a cannonball.
“Merchants talk, sire, and this one’s a right gobby git. I reckon we should make sure that mouth stays shut; stitch it up nice and tight." Chimes in the other thug, dropping his h's and lingering on his a's. "Or should we just feed him to the rats, o'just king?" The first thug shrugs, and picks at his teeth with filthy fingers.
The Beggar King ponders, “Make an example of him. Brand his face with the hot iron, have his eyes out and cut out his tongue, but, leave his mouth; it’s not right a man can’t eat proper," with a kingly nod, "let it be said, I am just.” The thugs bow, then they drag the screaming Nareshi merchant into the shadows.
The Beggar King wipes his bloodied blade on his robe.
“Forgive me, sire.” Percy’s lopes back into the chamber, bowing low in the soft light. “The Galt’s are here.”
The Beggar King, sweat streaming down his face, shifts his bulk back to his creaking timber throne.
A Galtish man strolls into the chamber with confident strides. He deftly steps over the puddle of blood and piss, then sidesteps the trail of severed fingers without giving them a second glance. He falls to one knee, bowing his head. “King under Thiel, I come to you with payment from King Madon and with a token of friendship,” the Galtish man speaks.
The Beggar King grunts and rests his giant, pudgy hands on his massive paunch. “King Madon, you say? His father, the king of Galt, walks above our heads. The prince should be reminded that he is not yet king.”
A howling scream from the Nareshi slaver, followed by the hissing of hot metal branding his skin, echoes in the background.
The Galt rises and gracefully avoids the expanding pool of piss and blood. He is tall, undeniably Galtish, with streams of copper hair. His voice carries a hint of a Galtish accent but is well-schooled in high Thielian. He releases a charming grin, capable of unlocking many a pair of legs. “My name is Olwin. I come to you in goodwill. I am loyal to King Madon and Queen Morana. In this, we share a commonality.”
The Beggar King chuckles, a low and rumbling sound. “I’m loyal to gold, so get to it.”
Olwin claps his hands, and eight Galtish men emerge, carrying a large, heavy wooden chest. Straining under the weight, the chests then thud onto the stone floor in clouds of dust. The Galtish men retreat into the dark alcoves.
Olwin opens the lid of one chest to reveal a vast sum of gold bars. “Pure gold, to be traded or coined in any kingdom,” he announces. The golden treasure glistens in the flickering chamber light, set in small, unbranded bars of riches.
The musicians strum the dreamy melody of a golden sunrise.
The Beggar King stands, his porky hands rub together, clammy with sweat and pork fat. He licks his greedy lips, hypnotized by the golden glow of gold. “What else? You said a token of friendship?” His eyes rise from the gold to Olwin.
Olwin reaches into his tunic and retrieves a small, slender dagger, and before The Beggar King can call for help, he falls to one knee and raises the golden knife high with two hands, humbly offering it to the underworld king. The dagger is no bigger than an eating knife, but it is forged from pure gold. “Know this, king under Thiel. King Madon says that when the time comes, you will be grateful for this blade. He bids you to keep it close.”
The Beggar King strides forward and takes the gleaming golden blade from Olwin. He turns it in his pudgy hands, his eyes dancing along the glowing golden surface. “Your prince plays a dangerous game.” The Beggar King’s greedy gaze was still fixated on the chests of gleaming gold. “Tell Prince Madon he will have his war.”
Olwin bows and leaves the chamber.
“Percy!” The Beggar King settles his enormous bulk back into his throne of reclaimed timbers.
The servant emerges, loping into the chamber like a lanky dog put to heel. “Yes, sire?”
“Send a message topside,” The Beggar King commands.
Percy fumbles on the wooden trestle table, spilling wine and clattering plates as he searches for parchment, quills, and ink. “Yes, sire,” Percy’s hands shake.
Lost in thought, The Beggar King’s glazed eyes reflect the glowing sunrise of the chests filled with pure gold. “Send a rat up top and tell him it is as agreed, and we will meet under the light of the trinity.”
Percy scribes the message, the quill darting and scratching across a small piece of parchment. He dries the ink with rushed blows, then rolls it into a small tube shape. Percy then scampers behind the king’s throne and then emerges with a small cage of rats. He opens the cage door and plucks a big, fat rat from the cage. He pets it, stroking the rat’s back as he attaches the rolled parchment to the rat’s rear leg. Percy strolls to the far recesses of the chamber toward a metallic pipe, a remnant of the city of Elsan. “Off we go, my sweet,” he whispers into the rat’s ear. “To the surface. Fly with swift feet. Do not stray; you know the way.” He unwinds a metal knob on the pipe and guides the fat rat into the tube.
Meanwhile, The Beggar King sits, enchanted by his golden dream. His bewitched eyes reflect the chests of pure gold, and he is entranced by the shimmering glow. “Percy, have my people fed,” he finally says. “Let every man, woman, and child eat fresh bread and feast on meat stew. Ensure every soul has a roof over their heads. No beggars on the lanes. Let all families sleep with warmth. Until the rise of the first sun, the lanes can be at peace. Let it be known to all that I am compassionate.”
Percy falls to his knees, overwhelmed with emotion, tears welling in his beady eyes. “Yes, sire. Let it be said. You are forgiving, kind, just, gracious, and compassionate. Let it be known to all, sire.”
Deep in thought, The Beggar King stands and descends from his makeshift throne, walking with slow strides into an alcove where a hot spring steams, in a deep, sunken granite pool. He unbuckles his crimson velvet robe and lets it fall to the floor. He undresses slowly and folds his gown and clothes into a neat pile. The Beggar King stands naked as a lie, wearing a tapestry of stitched-up stab wounds, scarred hacks, and burns. Patches of his skin are pink and pale, fragile as a newborn’s flesh, sown into the patchwork of scars. He walks to the shimmering hot spring and lowers his bulk into the aqua pool. He shovels streaming water over his bald head before he submerges into the waters with a contented sigh. Cleansed and baptized of his harsh deeds, The Beggar King resurfaces, a steaming lump of mottled flesh.
“Sire, the Baruci are here.”
“Send them in, Percy.”
The rat puckers its nose to the stench of vomit, piss, and stale ale. Its ears rise to the faint sound of laughter and the rattling of coins. The rat bounds ahead, sprinting through the narrow pipe. It dashes forward through the twisting darkness, racing toward the promise of all things rotten. Whispers and murmurs grow into the sound of raucous banter and drunken laughter. Whores giggle and strut amid sketchy, stone-eyed patrons, peering from behind thick clouds of loitering, haresh smoke.
The rat scurries along the ale-stained bar top and runs into the welcoming, manicured hands of Violet.
All rats know the Rose and Cock, and every rat loves The Beggar King.