CrossGate Story!

[hewhocumsbynight]

Now, more fanfiction about Crossgate and Mundiga!  This is a narrative, instead of a history paper, but I doubt it turned out any better!

CHAPTER 1:

                 The last day of my father’s life was tumultuous, and filled with remarkable events, but my clearest memory of that day will probably be the wisdom he imparted over breakfast, before I left to visit the Slave Market over in the Ninth Ward, to inspect the new meat.  As I stood up on the table, he reached across the table, and gripped my arm.  He looked up me, with his horribly mismatched eyes, and spoke through lips that were so shredded that they were more scar tissue than anything else.  “My son, my heir… Soon, you will be my successor, and will be entrusted with all that I’ve built.  You must never let this go to your head; there’s no faster way to get to the bottom of the shit heap than overconfidence.  Demand loyalty, and reward it when you get it.  Always be willing to do whatever you must do; the ends most certainly justify the means.  And, whatever you do, always be sure that you never show weakness.”  As he said these words, I respectfully nodded, and proudly declared my ability and willingness to follow in his footsteps.  We spent a moment more locked into that stance, before he nodded, and released my arm, indicating that the audience was over, and I should get about my work.  I never saw him again.
                I don’t know why this is the one memory that I chose to represent such an eventful day; after all, the old man didn’t give me any kind of context for his out-of-the-blue words of wisdom, and was almost certainly shrouded over when he spoke them.  I doubt he even remembered what he’d said after I left the building; he rarely did, when he’d been smoking the shroud mushroom. 
                Regardless, I left the brothel that served as my father’s headquarters, and wandered through the filth-choked streets of Crossgate, nodding and waving to allies and friends as I meandered my way towards the Slave Market.  It was a clear day, with no filthy water coursing down the roads, nor burning rays cooking the refuse into a righteous stink; the weather was perfect, I didn’t see any rival-aligned gangs, and I had a very nice lunch at a street café.  I arrived at the Market about an hour after noon, and went over to Anthony’s patch; the girls he sold tended to be clean of disease and drugs, and less likely to psychotically attack customers or staff, and thus my family usually bought from him.  I greeted the man, and asked to look over today’s offerings, before walking out around back to the pen where he held them for inspection.  I eyed the women with a buyer’s eye – elfin, human, bestial, alien, fae, and construct – and concluded that none were particularly special, but one or two might be worthwhile purchases.  I wrote down my observations, and got their specific information from Anthony, before bowing my goodbyes.  In a similar way, I paid visits to several of the other slavers, before returning home with my reports, to make my recommendations to my father.
                As I approached the Sixth Ward, where the brothel was located, I saw a line of smoke thread itself into the sky.  Noticing the placement of the smoke pillar, I broke into a run, and hoped that the obvious had not happened.  Sadly, not only had the brothel been set on fire, but it seemed to be completely abandoned.  I ran in, and as I ran through the building, I noted that someone had thoroughly looted everything that could be carried and resold, and wrecked the rest.  I ran up the stairs, to my father’s second-floor office, and stepped around the wreckage of the door.  What lay stretched across the splintered desk in no way resembled a man, but its moans betrayed its nature.  I slowly walked over, and ended my father’s life.
                I left the brothel, and wandered out into the street.  The fire was already dying down – whoever attacked should have actually hired, or at least consulted, a genuine arsonist.  None of the servants or slaves was present, though I could see several slumped bodies that looked like the guards.  All in less than a single day, the empire my father had constructed had evaporated like water in a pan.  However, now was not the time to mourn; I couldn’t afford a single hint of weakness.  I was weak and friendless, with only a few hundred gold to my name, and no retainers.  In other words, easy meat to the denizens of Crossgate. 
                As I reentered the brothel, I swore that I would rebuild, and I would bring pain to my enemies. 
                I began the hunt for anything that might be salvageable.  It looked like nobody had bothered to search my room, so most of the stuff there was intact.  Most of the rooms where the slaves and servants lived and worked were intact – of the thirty-one that the structure held, twenty were intact.  Again praising my enemy’s carelessness, I noted that the currently empty stable was perfectly intact, as was the small pub across the road.  Really, the facilities were near-miraculously untouched by the enemy; it was almost embarrassing.  As far as I could tell, they hadn’t even found the dungeon, which was really inexcusable.  Sadly, I still hadn’t found any of the slaves or servants, which probably meant that they were all either dead or spirited away.  I would need to replace them.
                I descended into the dungeon, and thanked the gods that apparently had granted me a small portion of golden thread today:  The hoard of four thousand gold pieces, along with a list of allied gang heads, that my father had buried in the dungeon was intact.  Hastily reburying most of the gold, I went out and hired a group of laborers to drag all of the burnt timber and smashed furniture to a local junk-dealer, where I could recoup at least some of the losses.  After the worst of the wreckage was hauled away, I rehired the laborers to repair the roof, walls, and floor enough that the building would be habitable.  Several hundred gold and several hours later, the workers went home for the night, and I hung a “Closed” sign over the door, which the workers had repaired before leaving. 
                As I sat at the shoddily repaired kitchen table to eat a solitary dinner, I reflected on the speed with which the world had changed.  Thirteen hours earlier, I had sat down to breakfast with my father at this same table – now, I sat in a darkened room at the same table, alone now.  After eating, I went upstairs and slept, gathering my strength for tomorrow. 
 

[FlamBurger]

Sweet! Another CBY fanfic!  

[hewhocumsbynight]

Sweet! Another CBY fanfic!

Yay!  I'm glad that I have my own trademark name now!  By the by, R565, if you're interested, I'd love to have a proofreader/beta reader...  Would you be interested?

[FlamBurger]

Sure I love to help out a fellow forum member!

[hewhocumsbynight]

Cool, once I have more, I'll send it to you for some scorn!

[GonDra]

In another words, easy meat to the denizens of Crossgate. 

"In other words, easy meat to the denizens of Crossgate."

Sadly, I still hadn’t found any of the slaves or servants, which probably met that they were all either dead or spirited away.

"..., which probably meant that they were all either..."

You could try to begin fewer of your sentences with "I ..." and "As I ...", but otherwise very nice.
I am interested in what you have in store for the character and makes me wish to revisit some of the stuff I wrote.

[hewhocumsbynight]

Thanks Gondra for catching those mistakes! 

[FlamBurger]

Oh, I was going to look at the story for mistakes.   I'll still keep looking though!

[hewhocumsbynight]

Please do!  Also, what do you guys think our Protagonist should be named?  And the brothel?

[hewhocumsbynight]

 CHAPTER 2
                Waking early the next morning, I ate a hasty breakfast before walking back to the Slave Market.  I needed to buy at least three, maybe four, slaves that morning:  Two to work on their backs, generating some badly needed income, and to restart the business; one to act as a cleaner, and as a general helper, and the fourth to act as security.  I’d probably purchase the first two from the Consortium, a kind of slaver’s alliance, which usually sold moderate quality flesh for reasonable prices, the third from Domestics, the main retailer for domestic slaves.  I’d probably get the forth from the Legio’s kiosk, where prisoners of the state and of war were sold to whoever wanted them. 
                I headed to the Legio’s location first, in the interest of self-preservation.  I spoke briefly to the Tesserarius on duty, working out any tips or sales he might be running, as well as figuring out how much of a bribe he wanted to undersell the quality merchandise.  After we came to an agreement, I wandered around to the slave pen inside the building behind the kiosk where the Tesserarius was stationed.  Within the pen was a large collection of men and women, wearing remnants of armor or uniforms, most with defeated or beaten looks on their faces, all with rough hemp bindings on their wrists.
                A few didn’t have the same defeated expressions as the rest of the chattel:  A man wearing tattered Styrene officer’s uniform glared at me from across the enclosure, while a woman garbed in matted furs and battered armor that looked like it came from a northern barbarian tribe stood tall in the middle of the yard, still unbowed despite the new slave brand on her shoulder.  These would probably be the most useful to me, as their will to fight, to resist wasn’t broken; in this, however, stemmed the massive problem of actually getting the slave to acquiesce to my will without breaking them. 
                While I considered the pros and cons of purchasing willful property, the Styrene and barbarian woman looked at each other, before turning back to me.  I briefly wondered whether they were plotting, before dismissing that possibility as more or less irrelevant.  I decided that the strength of an unbroken slave with fighting experience would probably help me more with my continued quest for self-preservation than a doormat would.  “But, do I really want to stop at self-preservation?” I thought, reflecting on yesterday’s events.  “The enemy is out there, and has attacked me – I need to get revenge!” 
                I looked back over to the pair of slaves standing in the middle of the pen, who were still glaring right back at me.  “Hey, you two!  Get over here!”  They looked at each other, and then started walking over to the fence.  “What d’ya want, prick?” The barbarian spat at me through a barely understandable northern accent.  The Styrene just stared at me, with a peculiar blankness in his eyes which was quite unnerving.  “I am not interested in being your friend, nor your enemy.  However, I need strong arms with a degree of loyalty to me.  If I buy you, and agree to free you in exchange for your continued support, you will serve me.  What do you think about that?”  The barbarian gave me a look that suggested that she thought I was just trying to bullshit her.  The Styrene looked mildly interested.  “Look, if I buy you, you’re mine.  However, I want your loyalty.  And, honestly, why would I even be talking to you two or proposing this deal if I wasn’t sincere?”  The Styrene gave a slow nod, while the barbarian continued to look puzzled.  “Fair enough.  If you free me, I will serve you to the best of my ability, until I feel my debt to you is repaid.”  This from the Styrene.  The barbarian looked mildly frustrated, before following the ex-soldier’s lead.  “Understood.”  I reached through the bars of the fence, and shook the Styrene’s hand, and gave a short bow to the barbarian woman. Then, I turned to the Tesserarius, and, after getting his attention, communicated my interest.  I bought the pair of them for 1100 gold, before bidding the officer good day, and leaving with my new purchases.
                The Styrene officer, Franz de’Peschi, and the barbarian woman, Riga, regained their freedom as soon as I had turned the corner and removed myself from the Legio post’s sightline.  The freeing of slaves, while not outlawed, is fairly taboo, as it indicates some sort of deep-seated weakness, or abolitionist tendencies, which the government has a vested interest in suppressing.  I took the contracts that bound their slave marks to my signature, and, after nicking my finger with my dagger, wrote “Null” across the paper with my blood, breaking the magical seal.  de’Peschi had a look of undisguised relief that underlined his mistrust of me, and his doubt that I’d stick to the deal we’d made.  Riga simply looked amazed as the brand marks were covered by smooth new skin, until nothing of the slave mark remained.  With my end of the deal held up, I looked at the two of them, and waited for their reactions.  I hoped that freeing them in such a way would earn their freely given loyalty, but I couldn’t be sure.  Fortunately, I needn’t have worried.  Riga clapped me on the back hard enough to stagger me, and, with a laugh, gave her approval.  “For a weak city-dweller, you aren’t too bad, little man!”  I thought this was unfair, as I came up to her rather impressive chest, but I was too relieved to remark on the comment.  Franz caught my eye, and nodded, indicating that he wouldn’t leave yet either.
                “Hey, Riga, Franz, what weapons do you know how to use?  Also, do you need any other gear to be effective?”  Warriors are not of much use unarmed.  Franz paused briefly.  “Firearms, short swords, and daggers.”  Riga voiced a familiarity with an astounding array of weaponry, including axes, swords, bows, and spears.  Followed by my two new strong-arms, I entered the adjacent market where possessions taken from slaves and prisoners are resold.  I looked at Franz’s filthy and worn uniform and Riga’s disgusting furs and battered armor, and decided that after acquiring weapons for the two, new clothing was a necessity. 
                One of the merchants called out my name, and I wandered over.  It was an old acquaintance of mine, Flavius the Horse, who had been apprenticed to a merchant almost ten years ago.  Since then, his master had provided my father and I with many miscellaneous goods, sold with a slight discount.  As such, I was a common customer at the stall Flavius manned when his master was busy.  “Hey Flav, how’s business?” “Not too good” Flavius sighed heavily.  “The usual customers continue to come, but we get less and less new custom.  Hey, is it true what I heard about your father?” This brought me up short, and made me wary.  “That he’s dead?  Sadly, this is true.”   I wasn’t sure how I felt about revealing this sensitive information.  While I counted Flavius as a friend, I couldn’t be sure what he’d do with this information.  I couldn’t deny it either though, not without alienating Flavius.  I suddenly realized that Flavius might be the least of my problems, though, as this newly revealed vulnerability might provoke my warriors to leave.  I glanced quickly back at them, and was surprised to see a look of sympathy on Riga’s face.  I was much less surprised to see a measuring tilt of eye from the Styrene, though.  I turned back to Flavius, and put a business-like face on.  “Yes, but right now, I need to look at your stock.  You got anything good for me today?” Flavius almost seemed to change into a completely different person, and adopted the smile that used goods salesmen inevitably wear.  “Sure thing! Take a look!” 
                I looked over Flavius’ stock, and saw that most of it was either of poor quality, or of no use to me.  Cheap tawdry trinkets, threadbare cloaks, and armor nearly as damaged as Riga’s lay on his table, with a few items of higher quality here and there.  I picked up a dagger that, while ugly, looked quite serviceable.  I handed it to Franz, and asked for his opinion, much to Flavius’ surprise.  Franz seemed to fondle the hilt for a second, before running a finger up the flat of the blade, before nodding approval.  Turning back to Flavius, I asked how much the dagger and a sheath would run me.  A brief period of dickering followed, after which I ponied up 20 gold for the dagger and a sheath, with belt.  I also bought the most serviceable set of trousers and a jacket for a further 8 gold, and a near-good pair of boots for 10 gold.  These I gave to Franz, who went behind the stall to change.  He sold the remnants of his uniform to Flavius for 3 gold, tactfully ignoring Flavius’ disgust at the dried blood, sweat, and mud that was caked all over the garments.  I said goodbye to Flavius, and walked over to a stall that specialized in materials taken off female slaves to acquire some gear for Riga. 
                Looking over the tall barbarian, I noticed a rugged beauty, where the attractive femininity of her long dirty blonde hair and large breasts perfectly complemented the scars that crossed her body and the obvious life-long muscles of a warrior that her form consisted of.  However, I doubted that suggested enhancement of her feminine features would be much welcomed at this stage.  I greeted the stall owner, who I’d not met before, and looked over the assorted dresses, shifts, skirts, trousers, and blouses that covered about a half of the table, the undergarments and stockings that covered a further quarter, and the armor that rested on the last quarter.  “Riga, you know best what you need – look over the clothing and armor, and select an outfit, and some armor.  Keep in mind that we’re on a budget.”  She grinned and nodded, proving that even savage barbarian women still love shopping.  Going through the pile of assorted clothing, Riga selected a shirt and some pants, which she asked permission to test the fit of.  The stall owner, a fairly greasy middle-aged man, nodded.  “Sure, go right ahead!  Though, if you want to make a bit of money, and earn a slight discount, you’ll do it in front of the stall.  You’ll get money, and I’ll get more customers!”  She gave me a questioning, slightly panicked look. I shrugged at her, not wanting to risk offending the mighty barbarian.  She thought for a moment, before coming to a decision.  “Sure, why not?  I don’t care if these weak city-dwellers see my tits, and I get all the money!  Don’t I?”  She asked me, a slight threat in her voice.  I hastily nodded, and she grinned, before dramatically throwing off the fur capelet that had covered her otherwise bare shoulders.  Next, the torn and poorly mended leather chest-piece, studded with iron rivets, was torn off her body, letting her rather large breasts swing free in the open air, attracting the attention of many passersby, who were drawn like moths to a light by her lovely rack, and by the charismatic and free presence that Riga had.  Finally, the armored skirt and attached leggings were pulled off, giving the audience a lovely view of her anus and buttocks, and then of her labia and pubic patch as she swung around, completely naked but for a massive and proud grin, and struck a pose that spurred the appreciative and adoring laughter of all present, myself included.  Then, with an attendant reluctant sigh from the eager viewers, Riga pulled on the pair of fairly tight, but nearly new, pants and the shirt, which left her forearms and midsection uncovered.
                As most of the former audience wandered off, a few stuck around, and the stall owner approached Riga, and gave her a small sack of 15 gold, which she took with a slight smile.  As Riga went back to perusing the armor, he approached me, a rather disgusting smile on his face.  He slapped my shoulder as if he was some buddy of mine, and smirked at Franz, who was looking more irate by the moment and kept fiddling with his dagger.  “Hey, she’s really something, isn’t she!  That’s one fine piece of ass you have there!  How much do you want for her?”  I considered letting Franz destroy the man, but I didn’t want to pay the money to bribe the Guard to ignore us afterwards.  I gave him a thin smile instead, not wanting any more trouble at this point.  “Sorry, friend, but she’s neither mine nor for sale.  But, please tell me how much you want for the shirt and trousers she’s wearing.”  With a disappointed scowl, he released my shoulder, before sighing.  “Meh, I’ll take 12 gold for the lot.  It’d be 15, but she looked far too damn good stripping earlier to renege on my discount.  I thanked him, and handed over 15 gold anyway; I didn’t like the man, but I didn’t want to piss off a reliable seller of fairly priced goods.  Plus, it’s always good to be on the good side of a merchant, no matter how small his operation.  A short while later, Riga selected a 25 gold scale-mail shirt, that covered her upper arms and her legs down to the knee.  I paid the man, and we left the market, picking up a 35 gold short sword built for hacking and slashing for Riga on the way out.
                We returned to the slave market.  I had about 2500 gold left from my father’s hoard, but the investment of 1300 gold in the powerbase of the two warriors behind me had been wise, a wisdom verified by the utter destruction of a gang of four muggers who tried to jump Riga, Franz and I on the way to the slave market.  Why they chose to attack three armed people instead of the more lightly armed pedestrians, I don’t know – perhaps they thought that we must have more money, or maybe someone had pointed them my way.
                 For whatever reason, as we were walking along one of the feeder streets that leads to the slave market, a man dressed in poor quality leather armor stepped out of an alleyway, a spiked cudgel in one hand.  Without even asking for our surrender, he rushed right at us, swinging his club as he went.  I began to react instantly, even as I heard the clash of metal from behind me, as Franz and Riga engaged the other three muggers.  I had a dagger at my side, but the thug was close enough and moving fast enough that I didn’t have time to unsheathe the blade; instead, I charged him, and as we collided, I slammed a knee up toward his crotch.  I missed, and hit his thigh instead, but I had enough momentum to knock him off balance, and to send both of us crashing to the ground.  His club rolled away as we traded punches in the gutter, grappling and clawing for each other’s eyes as we did so.  I got a lucky punch to his ear in, which stunned him for a second, enough for me to pull my knife, and put it under his neck.  He instantly froze, and we held position for a few seconds, before I slowly pulled myself up and away from him.  Once I was a few steps away, I turned and looked behind me, where I’d last seen Riga and Franz.
                 Both were still standing, though Franz had a fairly deep wound on his left forearm.  One of the thugs lay at Riga’s feet, bleeding out on the cobbles.  Another was unconscious, and the last had run.  Apparently, Franz had held off two thugs during most of my skirmish with some impressive knife fighting, keeping the two at bay, though he took a hatchet wound to the arm.  Riga had been in a similar position as I of lacking the time to draw steel, and had instead put her adversary into a bear-hug, before head-butting him into unconsciousness.  After her foe was disabled, she turned and stabbed one of the two thugs Franz was holding off in the side, which caused the last thug to run away. 
                After listening to Riga’s report, I was nearly bursting with pride and happiness.  “You guys are great!  Franz, it sounds like you’re absolutely exquisite with a knife; I don’t know many who could’ve held off two men with longer reach, especially not for as long as you did!  And Riga, I am so happy to have acquired your services, for you truly are an amazing fighter!”  Riga blushed slightly, before blustering out a thank you, and complemented me on my own takedown of an enemy.  Franz simply remarked that his arm hurt quite badly, and he very much wanted to go to the clinic.  And so we set off for the clinic, with the beginnings of a friendship forming as the last of the lifeblood of the unlucky mugger ran out onto the cold, uncaring pavement of Crossgate’s streets.

[FlamBurger]

Man this is why I want to draw! Your story gets more and more awesome every time I look at the chapters! I can even see Riga in my mind.   Keep it up man! Oh and I think his name should be something fitting since Crossgate is a mix of Modern and Medieval times. Raniz, Jaren, ect. (In case you don't know i'm pretty bad with names). 

[GonDra]

“Hey, you two!  Get over here!”  They looked at each other, than started walking over to the fence.

They looked at each other, then started walking over to the fence.

If I buy you, and agree to free you in exchange for your continued support, you will serve me. What do you think about that?”

If I buy you, and agree to free you in exchange for your continued support, will you serve me?
(Not sure about this one, but it seems formulated awkwardly.)

..., I entered the adjacent market where possessions taken from slaves and prisoners are resold.

..., I entered the adjacent market where possessions taken from slaves and prisoners were sold.

Since then, his master had provided my father and I with many miscellaneous goods, sold with a slight discount.

Since then, his master had provided my father and me with many miscellaneous goods, sold with a slight discount.


Didn't check further than this, since my headache is coming back right now (hasn't anything to do with your story it simply came back from this morning.).
While I am at it: Take my corrections with a pinch of salt, English isn't my primary language and I haven't studied it extensively, I just enjoy reading and writing in the English language.

The story is progressing nicely though. I am a bit interested in the reasoning from the main character not to kill his opponent though. Also my videogame trained brain questions the main characters decision to not make a quick search through the fallen guys pockets for money or eventual evidence that they were sent after him.

[FlamBurger]

LOL that's rich but yeah I wonder why he didn't kill the guy? Oh and sorry bout the headache Gondra...

[hewhocumsbynight]

I'm glad you guys like what I've got so far!  And, GonDra, thanks for picking up these mistakes!  I'm rather appalled at having missed them - this shows my overdependance on spellcheck!  And, I confess, I really had that same impulse, to have him just kill the guy, but I'm trying to create a pragmatic, but still moral protagonist who isn't a superman.  Also, he isn't an amoral, barely human sociopath like his father; I just cannot write an amoral character, no matter how hard I try.

[FlamBurger]

Well that's good! I don't like killing people anyway. I let them and if they try again....   But it depends on the situation too.