In Part 2 of About Crown, we get to see a dark and bizarre side of Crown. Join Ashy as he leads you along the wererat Grakk's path and reveals his struggles to survive in the day-to-day life of Crown: the City of the Fallen!
Don't forget to pop back in next month to read more!
Trying his best to avoid any other ‘Watch patrols, Grakk angled down Wayfarer’s Row and cautiously picked his way through the tangle of side streets and lean-tos that dominated the northern end of the Deep Harbor district. Most were empty, now that fall was waning, but the wererat still kept his guard up; more out of habit than anything else.
One did not survive long in the Sewer City beneath Crown by doing anything other – it was a vile, dark place full of thieves, cutthroats and far worse things: cultists, shadow-guilds, and horrible creatures that would devour one body and soul. There was an old saying the Sewer City: “If you don’t sleep with one eye open, don’t expect to awak'n.” Grakk sighed.
It was foul, but it was home...
With care, the wererat-in-man’s clothing picked a circuitous route towards the bustling harbor. With winter nearing, it seemed that every merchant and sailor this side of the Sea of Arcaeva jousted and jockeyed for a position on the docks, desperate to make that final sale or shipment that might hold them through the long, frigid winter. Rooster’s was only a block east from the docks, but Grakk knew that the ‘Watch’d stepped up patrols in the area since the murders had increased in frequency. The sorry, plate-mailed oafs where shaking down every scamp and scoundrel they could lay hands on. Grakk hadn’t caught the true wind of it yet, but he could tell some major player – a new one – was on the prowl in Crown. The wererat knew, though, if he stayed true to the scent, he’d root out its source soon enough. Hopefully, it would be worth some crowns – he though, stifling a groaning belly.
Grakk sighed when he stepped out of the alley on to Squidpeel Lane. He never found out why the narrow, cobbled way was named such, but even his near-useless human nose could give him several solid guesses. He wrinkled the stub of a nose and shouldered his way into Rooster’s. If there was one positive thing about the tiefling’s dive, it was that amongst all the squalor and stink of the Deep Harbor Ward, Roosters Refuge smelled…well…good. Good, that is, if one doesn’t mind the of’t head-aching bouquet of several score primped and perfumed male tiefling paramours. After all, Rooster’s was little more than a low-end, bordello for “clientele with peculiar tastes”.
Grakk disliked the smell and disliked the place. He disliked the looks that the sleek, saucy tiefers gave his unwashed, thread-bare, and garbage-stained rags. He disliked how they sold themselves to anyone with enough gold. Grakk'd decided long ago that he’d rather die in the Sewer City than become another being’s slave. He might die beneath a dung heap, but at least that least, reeking breath would be a free one.
The click-scratch of footfalls and a throaty, utterly fake chuckle told Grakk that Rooster himself was approaching, and he turned from glaring at the spineless, pompous asses to eyeball their master and pimp. Grakk could not help but to grin at the foolish-looking fop: from the waste up, Rooster completely looked the part of a fine Old Temple Ward aristocrat. Dressed in fine, brushed and tailored waistcoats and linens, his face powdered and marked and his fiery red hair coiffed and curled in the latest, bizarre “style” of the high-and-mighties.
Looking at him, from the waist up, one might have even placed Rooster into one of the great merchant or political houses of Crown; which, in truth, was what the rotten-to-the-core tiefling wanted more than anything in the world. Ironically, it was his lower half, and that which he was, which prevented this from ever happening. For, from the waist down, Rooster resembled nothing more than a giant version of his namesake: a large, talon-footed, and scarlet-feathered avian… Apparently, something in Rooster’s demonical heritage had once come out of an egg – albeit a large egg - of some kind. In fact, one of the most scandalous of all rumors surrounding Rooster himself was that he actually slept in a massive nest, perched upon the egg of one of his own, yet un-hatched spawn.
As he caught Grakk staring at his lower extremities, Rooster make an impatient huffing sound that came out more like, “Bur-kk!” An unfortunate habit which only reinforced the tiefling’s even more unfortunate circumstances.
Grakk merely raised his eyes to the fop, sneered and tossed him the bag. “What’ll ya give me fer the lot?”
