=The Slums=
The Sinner's Alley. A small tavern where the crooked of the slums sometimes gathered. Broken tables and chairs lined the sides of the room, with whatever furniture that was still usable assembled neatly in the middle. A few men in tattered clothes sat at the bar conversing with the tavern owner about rumors the whispers of the dark. In the corner near the entrance sat a figure in a black cloak, illuminated by the morning sun. A half full dirty mug of pale beer that had long since gone flat sat on the table in front of him, along with a small cloth pouch of coin. This was a human, long since left in the wake of the coming of the creatures of myth and legend. Old gods long ago sentenced humans to the bleak role of slave, insect, tool. This man had no need, nor faith in such gods.
This man's name was Crum. Postured in his seat as if he were comfortable in the dark, musty room. As though he were enjoying his morning 'brew' Crum listened, half interested, to the chatter taking place at the bar.
"I'm telling you, you're better off here.", the tavern keeper said flatly to one man.
"And I'm telling you I've spent my days here in the shadows long enough. Doing nothing. Thinking nothing. Being
nothing.", the man replied coldly. "I may become a slave, but at least I'll be surrounded by better than broken homes, people, and the creatures that stir here."
"At least here you have free will."
"What is free will if there is no life to it? Every single day I wander about with no aim, and find myself in the Junk Heaps. Then I sort through those with the rest of the nobodies and then take whatever I fend to the merchants. Whatever I get there I bring here, and give it to you." snorted the man, "And then I get to sit down to this.". The man gestured at the half-eaten, half-rotten bun sitting in front of him. "I would rather be a slave than continue being the trash that the
higher society dumps here."
Crum, long since understood that only a certain kind of man could upset the norms of the slums. A man of steel, forged in the fires of the cruel world they were sentenced to, and shaped by the unforgiving streets of the slums. A man who would fight, steal, or kill for the chance to continue living. He did not judge, or condemn the actions of this man who would give up his freedoms to not care for his own shelter, food and clothing. However he knew that this man did not have the mettle to continue on down here in the slums. For that you must have a stronger mental fortitude. Crum was not interested in this conversation of freedoms and slavery, he was much more interested in the conversation between the two men at the far end of the bar who would occasionally look in his direction and continue muttering on. But Crum is a patient man, and sensed that eventually, they would come to him. "Until then...", he thought, as he took another sip of his beer, and enjoyed what he could, of the warm glow of the sun.