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The city is rotting, dying by inches. It sits up high in the damp, miserable cold of the clouds and festers. The people are becoming beasts, caged in this floating hell as they try to convince themselves it’s somehow better than being on the ground.
We were called to Lady Sturcoat’s property in the Aspirations, reports of vermin in the cellar. Myself and Tirones Blackthorn attended.
We arrived to find a party in full swing, a selection of the cities bright young things. Young nobles who’ve done nothing but spend money handed down from generations who earned it, gaggles of chinless youths trying to shore up their own mediocrity with the legacy of previous generations. The party was of the Making Do type so fashionable at the moment. The rich, the idle and the contemptuous behaving like animals, mocking the poor and destitute as they wear last year’s fashions, torn and damaged in ways to tease, titillate and provoke. The guests make to with the second best wines, indulge in common foods that are by no means common. As we passed through we saw more one room with couples or groups fornicating, the halls thick with the smell of incense, drugs, musk and sex. The idle rich’s attempts to act out their fantasy of poverty. Their way of acting out some vision of all being in this together.
In the basement we found Sturcoat’s vermin. Three refugees from Cheapside, they were wet, cold and near starved. Lady Sturcoat demanded we throw them from the city walls.
People like her haven’t seen Cheapside, the dense squats crammed with dull eyed and slack jawed scraps of humanity coughing their lungs out in filthy air and desperate for a salvation that isn’t coming. They came to us for help and we locked them in the slums, turned our backs on them and hoped they’d just go away.
It was all I could do not to run that rich bitch through on the spot. Cut my way through the guests of her party and burn the fucking house to the ground. Instead we took the three beleaguered souls to the Pillory. Public punishment for the crime of daring to be poor in the presence of wealth.
Salararius Arcudi, 5th Legion.
We were called to Lady Sturcoat’s property in the Aspirations, reports of vermin in the cellar. Myself and Tirones Blackthorn attended.
We arrived to find a party in full swing, a selection of the cities bright young things. Young nobles who’ve done nothing but spend money handed down from generations who earned it, gaggles of chinless youths trying to shore up their own mediocrity with the legacy of previous generations. The party was of the Making Do type so fashionable at the moment. The rich, the idle and the contemptuous behaving like animals, mocking the poor and destitute as they wear last year’s fashions, torn and damaged in ways to tease, titillate and provoke. The guests make to with the second best wines, indulge in common foods that are by no means common. As we passed through we saw more one room with couples or groups fornicating, the halls thick with the smell of incense, drugs, musk and sex. The idle rich’s attempts to act out their fantasy of poverty. Their way of acting out some vision of all being in this together.
In the basement we found Sturcoat’s vermin. Three refugees from Cheapside, they were wet, cold and near starved. Lady Sturcoat demanded we throw them from the city walls.
People like her haven’t seen Cheapside, the dense squats crammed with dull eyed and slack jawed scraps of humanity coughing their lungs out in filthy air and desperate for a salvation that isn’t coming. They came to us for help and we locked them in the slums, turned our backs on them and hoped they’d just go away.
It was all I could do not to run that rich bitch through on the spot. Cut my way through the guests of her party and burn the fucking house to the ground. Instead we took the three beleaguered souls to the Pillory. Public punishment for the crime of daring to be poor in the presence of wealth.
Salararius Arcudi, 5th Legion.