Diaries of Made-Up Men

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Jack Oat
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Diaries of Made-Up Men

Post by Jack Oat » Wed Dec 06, 2017 12:36 pm

"Because we have, and they have not. Because they want what we have got.
The enemy is poverty, and the wall keeps out the enemy, and we build the wall to keep us free.
That's why we build the wall, we build the wall to keep us free."

Winter was always the worst.

The humid frost whipped from the winds in tandem with the long, cold nights to turn the winding, decrepit backwater streets into a graveyard for the unprepared and uninitiated. He pulled his own coat a bit tighter as he watched crowds gather around makeshift braziers and barrels lined with whatever metals could be found housed the only warmth the lucky ones could find, if they managed to push and shove their way close enough to it. The tattered few structures that lingered in the abandoned section were filled with either squatters or gangs who controlled them, but the broken boards that composed them made the buildings as a whole fairly useless.

This was Cordor- not the glistening Cordor that is first presented to those who arrive by way of fine ship or trade road, but the Cordor that drives every facet of the rest. This was the Lower District: population two thousand five hundred, the most densely populated single area in the entirety of the Isle.

The men, women, and children who call the Lowers their home are often referred to as "Docklanders," "Slummers," or other equally downtrodden names to associate them with the rather poor socio-economic status that holds them in their place. Much like a homeowner keeping the dogs off the furniture, most every attempt made by these second-class citizens to even leave their region of the City is met with swift rebuttal by the Cordorian Elite Guards, referred to by those denizens as "Shiners" either as a method to identify them due to the the gleam in their plate armor, or as a derogatory term about the actions they perform with regards to the rear-ends of the Nobility.

For these people, the only methods of escape are to either side with the aristocracy and betray their neighbors, be graced by the Gods to become an adventurer like the many who pass through the City, or take the reigns of their lives in hand and then drive it off a roof-top.

Ironically, that is how this tale begins: with one such individual, a Thomas Murphey, falling from the top of the Colosseum's south wall where he had climbed the minutes prior. Mister Murphey was twenty seven and a well respected man. He started work on the docks as a tugboat grappler- an individual responsible for tying knots to incoming ships, in order to tow them in- at the ripe old age of five years and three months (he had said this with pride), and never moved up from that position. There was a single thump on the ground and the crowd of spectators let out a collective sigh of disappointment. He was survived by one child- Mira, 6- and his wife Leah. And now he was a lifeless body on the ground.

Clyde contemplated this as he watched the Guards carry his one-time coworker away toward the docks- the denizens of the lowers, of course, weren't deserving or able to be buried properly, so their burials came in the unceremonious form of being dumped in the ocean. The sight was sobering, which was unfortunate given how much trouble (and coin) he had gone through to get drunk that morning. His one day off this month, no less.

This sort of sight had become commonplace since Rhaeg's Rebellion back some decade prior. At least four or five times a month, someone decided they were fed up. Clyde had seen three such incidents, now four, in his time. These deaths added to the relatively high mortality rate from the perilous work that his people were all but forced into: mining in beast infested caves, working on rickety ships unfit to even be moored in a dry-dock let alone sail, cleaning out sewers infested with monstrosities of all kinds. Perhaps figuring that it was, indeed, going to be "one of those days" the union foreman dragged his tobacco pipe from the pouch on his belt with a defeated sigh.

"You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."

Garrbear wrote:

quite bluntly we can't balance the server around people who don't play well

Irongron wrote:

My main takeaway from this is that Jack is apparently personable


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Jack Oat
Posts: 734
Joined: Mon Sep 08, 2014 3:46 am
Location: The Slanty Shanty

Re: Diaries of Made-Up Men

Post by Jack Oat » Wed Dec 06, 2017 4:36 pm

"What do I do? Oh, I'm simply an assistant to the High Imperceptress."

He dragged the barrel down the alleyway with a groan about both the weight and the cold. It was the disgusting sort, that sank deep into the bones.

"No, Heavens no, I'm far from any fighter."

The warehouse worker that had asked why he had been there and what he was doing quickly took a blade to the gut some twelve or fourteen times before the quick snap of his spine rendered him dead.

"Have I any skills with poisons? Poisons, really? No, Gods no. I cook, but only our dinners. Fret not."

The concentrated illithid serum that had been slipped into the two security guards' morning coffee had gnawed at their brains until they were left as drooling husks of their former selves, moaning incomprehensibly as their eyes looked in different directions.

"Do I have any skills with fine mechanics? I can repair watches, if that's what your ask-- Traps. You mean traps. No, I don't know a thing about those. Well beyond my purview, and most definitely not involved in my line of work."

He stared down at the tripwire in the alley, then the small mechanism it was attached to. A single bolt from a one-shot crossbow, child's play. A quick rigging changed it up to shoot a grenade carrying caltrops into the air, detonating a fraction of a second later into a highly lethal shrapnel grenade.

"As I've told you before, my skillset is in paperwork. I am a paper-pusher, little more."

Finally, an opportunity to rest. Julian stared across the harbor at his handiwork, then up to the clocktower as it clicked on by. 5:57, 5:58, 5:59... He sucked smoke in from the cigarette in his hand to stave off the cold. Soon he would be offering a quick release from that cancerous frost to others, albeit briefly. The clocktower struck six, and he inhaled once more.

...Nothing happened. His mind quickly ran through the checklist. Was it in place? Yes. Was there any interference? None that hadn't been neutralized. Had the plot been- Oh.

It dawned on him only then. With a shake of his head and a soft laugh, he flicked the ashes and embers of the cigarette to his right, onto a small pile of dust. The dust hissed as it caught flame, the trail of gunpowder quickly scooting off into someplace distant and out of both sight and hearing.

6:02. Close enough to the original time. Who would really remember, in the end?

The warehouse went up almost instantly in a massive ball of flame. The shockwave rushed over the water and slammed against Julian, knocking the breath from his lungs and the flame from the Cigarette. Gods damn it.

He fumbled for his lighter as men scrambled around, yelling and yapping away. All the evidence of his handiwork had gone up with the building. The man he had stabbed was likely turned to a pile of ash blasted against the cobblestone street, the poisoned guards deep fried to the point of being unrecognizable, the trap vaporized to add to the carnage. Men ran from the building aflame, leaping into the chilled depths of the sea for release. A part of him wondered what the body count would be, but that would come later.

The Dread-Secretary pushed from the crate he had been seated on and vanished into some darkened alleyway.

"We have a subterfuge department. I am not part of it. All I do is bureaucracy."

"You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."

Garrbear wrote:

quite bluntly we can't balance the server around people who don't play well

Irongron wrote:

My main takeaway from this is that Jack is apparently personable


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