Grimwall

Part 1

The city of Grimwall was named for its defining feature. For hundreds of years the stone wall had stood as a testament to the perseverance of its people, and the city had flourished with it. The wall was made from thick slabs stacked atop each other that broke into a trim the local militia looked out from. A wide, stone lined road ran through the city and through the forests that flanked each side of the huge stones. At the foot of the wall was a deep moat, and at the bottom of that a small river that soaked through the mud and grit dumped from the city walls.

Grimwall was a trading city, set in the middle of a long road from the north that bought with it all sorts of merchants and travellers. The streets and shops took influences from all over the world, harking back to the relationships and trust the city had developed with the travelling merchants. The thick walls and deep moat of the city gave the perfect amount of security for a greedy populace that wanted to keep their goods safe, but that seemed to be the only real appeal. It was once said that Grimwall was a city where you could meet anyone from any country, and buy anything you were looking for. The shops and designs of the buildings tried to live up to that illustrious reputation, but after so many years it was just a rumour. A hundred years earlier Grimwall had been an incredible sight, but now signs of age were beginning to show. At the top of the walls the militia looked nervously down from their perches, their uniforms little more than coloured fabric and a bit of worn leather to 'protect' them. They wore tin hats and held onto splintered spears, and their legs shook at the sight of any sort of trouble, and there was plenty of that.

Grimwall's moat was only traversable by two huge drawbridges, both made from local wood of the forest that surrounded the city. It was possible to travel around, but to travel through the forest, that didn't have any paths or signs, was dangerous and had taken the lives of plenty of foolish hunters. There were rumours about what rested in those woods, wolves that could rip a man in two, ones that could walk on two legs. This meant Grimwall was a necessity to the northern route. It offered a perfect, safe break from a long journey and a much needed respite from the dangers the forest presented. That should have been the case at least, instead both of the rickety drawbridges were raised and hopeless merchants made camp on the stone road outside, stuck waiting for a way inside.

Something was wrong with the city, everyone could see and sense it. The weak willed militia were unusually resistant to dropping the drawbridges, and shockingly, the crime and refuge of the city had begun to drift away. That should have been a relief, but a lot of people were going missing. People were becoming restless, but strange activities and sounds in the night kept them nervously at bay. The old streets of the decrepit city were growing quiet, the bustling atmosphere that spread through the many kiosks dying with the setting sun and giving way to quiet, cold nights. The old houses and shops, busy during the day, shut early and shooed away new customers to lock their doors and bar their windows. Lamps were lit early, and children were rushed home when their parents saw the light beginning to fade. Grimwall was turning into a city divided, but in the centre of a small square, at the foot of a stone wolf spouting water, a stranger seemed completely ignorant of these troubles.

Maya was leaning up against the fountain, the shape of the rabid wolf spitting water contrasting against her rather boring look. She had short black hair and a dull grey robe that stopped at her knees. The robe was tattered at the ends, and worn in several places, but she wore it with a certain amount of decrepit grace. Patches of different fabric crossed over several of the more obvious holes, they were all probably from quite nice clothes, originally at least. Maya's eyes were a sharp black and her face attractive but serious. She must have been in her early thirties, but even with the dirty robe draped over her small frame her skin and complexion were spotless. The lipstick she wore was as pitch black as her hair and she wore small studded earrings that seemed to be lost behind the slight curl of her locks. If one looked carefully they would have seen the tips of tattoos escaping under her robe. Her hands were covered by gloves of multiple colours that she held out in front of her and moved with every word she said, they were quite obviously out of place. In front of her was a small crowd of young children, eagerly looking up at her. Maya was a storyteller, and she was just getting to the good bit.