A sickly waif sits atop a horse belonging to a stranger who'll never see it again, cowl pulled up, cloaked from the cold morning rain. Before her the gates of Murann bustle with traders, refugees, local sellswords and Harbor Guardsmen. The treeline ends abruptly, making way for the sprawling cityscape; an old motley cobblestone with with dirt-filled craters or cracked fragments of the larger firmament. Rows and rows of tenements giving way to the outreach of broader urban coastline beyond, black slate rooftops reaching up towards a heaven they'll never quite grasp;
just like you. The wide city gates lay open during the great storm, permitting strangers, foreigners and non-humans alike to impregnate an already-sallow slum.
Home.
The beggar dismounts and shivers, shuddering like an animal shaking water free from its soaked hide. Few folk pay attention to just another pauper slithering through the crowd, especially with the streets awash with an ugly dark stew practically nearing the ankles as a result of the incessant rainfall. The worst storm in a long time. Circumventing the growing bustle near the outskirts of the Lower Boroughs prompts a visit through the market. Dozens more traders and foreign dignitaries hurriedly work to pack up their stalls and load their carts to get their products out of the soaking downpour; but it's no good. Calishite rugs lay soaked and shriveled in the gutter. A hundred hours wasted for a piece of cloth that'll go unloved until it falls apart, or is burnt for warmth by her fellow Rowers; if only to get dry for an evening.
Beyond the market lies the Promenade. Properly shingled manors and tall buildings stretch above the domicile of the Muranni everyman. Eclectic brickwork and stone lay sprawled out in a lavish display of Amnian haute-culture. An edge of town that does not know hunger, or evenings out in the cold, or a blackjack to the mouth;
You fell to the ground with a wet 'thud' as the chips cracking from your teeth tumbled back down your throat. The world was spinning, and it wasn't the good kind of spinning; you weren't out for a pint at the Low Dog, no. You were lying in a gutter with some stranger's hands combing through your pockets. Warm little digits frisking down your sides and up your tummy in search of something, anything. A contrast to the chill of the rain that overtook your whole body, soaked to the bone in that heavy, merciless shower. One blink and then another. The taste of iron as your gums bled the same color as the shawl draped across your shoulders.
"Good business, scab. Grab the horse, we'll beat the rest out of her later."
That's the only thing you remember about that day beyond the vague, cracked features of an elderly fellow accompanied by a younger boy, almost as old as you. Another lump to the belly had you curling up on the cold stone before your lunch came back up your throat to greet your attacker's clogs in a putrid forray. Another kick, then another as transgression for your upchuck was rewarded with a huck of blood to replace the vomit. You rolled onto your back once they'd left, heaving greedily for what air you could suck back through your broken maw, the frigid air burning your lungs like a bad hit from a pipe, or food accidentally inhaled instead of swallowed. You were greeted by those distant black rooftops, your swimmy vision offering a two-for-one special on the view.
Will you ever go there?
Will I?
No.
You're clambering through the mud like a rat, and that's where you belong. Maybe the old man was right. Maybe it's time you start taking Him more seriously.
You decided that you would rather trust in Him, than continue to spoil from within.
O' Shadowlord. Wouldst thou truly divinity sanction?
