Date: 2nd of Spring 515AV
He stared blankly at his own hands. Gods knew how many seasons ago it had been that Razkar had cut off his pinkie when he’d tried to rob the savage Myrian. That encounter had taught him several things. First: Razkar wasn’t as mad as he seemed. Second: stealing was a bad idea. And so he had taken to working at the gallows, helped lifted the poor sods sentenced to death from their beds, helped tightened the rope around their necks. It hadn’t earned him much. Enough to sustain himself, but not a copper worth of profit.
Sitting at the edge of the gallows, he watched as the filth of Sunberth milled about. Thieves, beggars, villains all, not a right soul between them. Who will be next, he wondered. Who will be next to dance in front of a baying crowd.
News had spread like wildfire throughout the city. Four accounts of rape, seven stabbings, and a whole host of other small crimes. At first he’d thought the rumors had been about the same people. One rape or stabbing wasn’t so unusual. But he’d been wrong. One of the rapists had made the unfortunate mistake of petching the daughter of some gang leader. He hadn’t even bothered to hear out from which gang. It was best not to get involved in such matters.
He glanced over his shoulder. Within a few bells the bastard would dangle underneath the noose. Hopping off the edge, he mingled with the crowd. He wore his usual attire today: a simple tunic, black pants, and his mother’s red scarf. It was too warm for a scarf really, but he couldn’t leave the thing at home and risk it being stolen.
Lost in his thoughts, his feet steered him towards the Pig’s Foot where he ordered a pitcher of ale. It was not something he did often, but he’d found today to be a particular depressing sort of day. Hanging a man, no matter his crimes, was never fun. Obviously he wouldn’t have to do it alone, he was hardly the strongest around. In fact, all he did was make the knots and drag the defiled bodies to the heap once the crowd had stripped them bare.
Glancing over the rim of his mug he spotted an unusual sight. A girl with fiercely blonde hair, not two tables removed from him. She didn’t look like the type to sit in a tavern in the middle of the day. Then again, he supposed he didn’t look the type either. Stormy grey eyes remained fixed on her as he tried to assess if she was lost, vulnerable, and in need of help, or if she was in fact putting up