Parallel: Residential Issues

The Birth of Wonder

Mitrhe didn't have much in the way of worldly possessions. He had a shovel, a pair of pants, a pair of rags that at one point may have been socks of some sort, and a pounding, indescribably agonizing hangover. His life (as much as he remembered at least) had never been particularly kind. It was always difficult to scrape by as a poor, young, and basically illiterate peasant when just about anything could brutally murder you without a second thought. But he managed. Seasonal farm-help was always needed, and grave-digging (and occasionally grave-robbing) made enough to keep him alive.

Today, Mitrhe was heading to a bigger, more affluent region to try his hand at things that could allow him a decent living, caravan guard, city watchman, soldier, these came to mind as ones that could potentially fit the bill. He was a decent shot with a bow, and had enough practice swinging an axe to fill a lifetime. The problem he had found, was he was dirt poor.

The city of Kerta required you to purchase your own equipment to join the watch or the militia, and their required gear was staggeringly expensive. Of course, to Mitrhe anything priced in silver or gold and not common bronze was staggeringly pricey, survival is a far cry from having extra spending money.

His lucky break had come in the former of a big, broad, middle aged woman who ran a decent looking tavern in a crappy looking part of town. She needed a new bouncer to replace her former one (there was a story in there about the local gangs and an astonishing sum of money, but Mitrhe just zoned out) and our scrappy protagonist needed a paying job and a place to crash.

That night he learned that for him, he words 'alcohol' and 'tolerance' would never go together in a sentence, unless preceded by the word zero. Less than a quarter of a tankard after the tavern closed he was passed out drunk after sharing his life's story while sobbing to one of the serving hands. Hence, his current hangover.

He left the tavern with a promise to return that night to continue his new job. Now, however, he had 20 bronze in spending money. And he needed a shirt and some shoes.

It turned out that a shirt in decent shape ran him 15 bronze, a pair of shoes would cost almost an entire silver, and that was used, if he wanted ones that fit him well he would need to fork out more than 3 silver, which was almost 2 weeks pay for him.
'Freaking no good, rip-off cobbler!' He thought angrily, trying as hard as he could to mentally fling the words at the portly business man. Alas, he could neither kill with a look, nor communicate with his mind, oh well, it was getting on in the day anyway, and he needed more cash. Time to find the local undertaker.

Mitrhe's goal ended up being a particularly fat man in his middle ages, 40 something if Mitrhe had to guess. And judging by the line of people out the door, the work would be good.

"I'm here for work. Got my own shovel, done grave digging before, you pay?" Mitrhe was short, almost curt with his words, he guessed the man would prefer expediency over politeness given the clear backlog of work.

"3 bronze per grave, 6 feet deep, 3 feet wide, 7 feet long, let them pick the spot." His clipped voice and business like attitude belated his borderline slovenly appearance.

"Can do." Mitrhe was fine with those terms, the pay would be better than almost anything he had ever done before anyway. Stepping to a man who had already paid, he nodded his head respectfully before speaking.

"I'm sorry for your loss, where would you like the grave plot?" His voice was measured and calm, experience had taught him it was best to appear solid, and a little simple. People payed less attention that way, and often underestimated him when if it came to a fight.

"Somewhere *hic* near a tree, *sob*" the 20 something man was clearly distraught, and judging by the coffin beside them, it was a child he was grieving.