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Description
Marrik
Small and skinny, with grubby dark hair and his face smeared with the grime, Marrik is the picture of hunger and starvation. He trudges down the street, taking care not to draw attention to himself, and the people around him do their part by ignoring him in turn. No-one likes to watch the suffering of others, especially the suffering of children - better to pretend that they simply aren’t there. Marrik is aware of this, and uses it to his advantage; making sure to keep his clothes dishevelled and his face grimy, he projects the appearance of a downtrodden denizen of the slums. He had learnt long ago that looking too healthy on these streets can single someone out as a target, and had found that old tallow gives the skin a certain unhealthy pallor. On a hot day it has been known to attract stray dogs from the slums, but dogs are easier to deal with than the other predators that can be found lurking in the shadows.
Marrik makes his way through the crowded streets, invisible and unimportant. His appearance is the only armour he can afford, one which gives him freedom to explore many of the more populous parts of the city. In the richer areas he would be turned aside, or killed out of hand, by the men who were paid to keep the pathways of the privileged free from the clutter of the poor and needy. On the other hand, in the degenerate lower part of the city, no matter how poor and worthless a person appears, someone may prey on you for some nefarious purpose of their own.
Marrik never went near those kinds of places, as the rewards were few and the risks many. Better to stay in the anonymity of crowds, weaving between the rich and poor alike, making the rich poorer as he went. This was his gift, the reason that he had managed to avoid starvation in the slums. A quick mind, quick eyes, quick hands and, when necessary, a quick pair of feet to get him out of trouble; although trouble rarely happened as he was far too subtle and swift. Most did not notice their possessions were missing until long after he had weaved his way back into the crowd. Marrik had never questioned his willingness to steal away someone else's trinkets and treasures to pay for his own sustenance and survival. This was simply how life worked in the city, and it was better than spending a restless night with an empty belly gnawing at him.
Marrik had been stealing to feed himself for almost two years now, ever since he had escaped from the lower-city orphanage. Children were a valuable commodity, and few escaped for long before being captured and returned. A few children are lucky enough to be taken in by tradesmen as apprentices, but the rest are kept until they earn their freedom some other way. Some orphanage masters will trade children to workhouses, or the flesh pits; either case being a death sentence or a living nightmare.
Marrik had thought himself lucky at first, when he had been chosen to be sent to the clergy house in temple square. It did not take long for him to learn that the High Deacon’s tastes were no different from those who frequented the brothels of the flesh pits. Marrik still sometimes awoke from dark dreams; dreams of the Deacon’s rictus grin and that bulbous red-veined nose, the stink of his breath after a night of drinking, and the stubble that scratched against his young cheek as he tried so hard not to cry.
He shook these thoughts away and focuses his gaze on the busy street, noticing a rich looking man wearing the long fur-lined coat that was the fashion among the upper-city merchants. The boy found himself gravitating towards the man, not only because of the rich cut of his outfit, but also the distracted way he was walking; as if wandering without a care through the common trading streets was a normal thing to do. People with such an uncaring view of the lower-city rarely left it as rich as they entered, and often not as vertically. Clearly the man was not local, as he seemed unaware of the dangers around him. He was sauntering through the street as if he owned it, trading words with a smaller man beside him. Dressed in a tidy little suit, complete with a small bowled hat and a pair of wire spectacles perched on his nose, this man had the definite air of a clerk. With his hands held demurely in front of him, he at least seemed wary of the people around him; at least on the rare occasion that the eddies and swirls of the crowd pulled him away from his tall companion. He would quickly return to his side, as if safety could be found there, though with such an obviously rich target nearby the clerk would probably remain unnoticed.
Marrik began to follow at a discrete distance, avoiding drawing attention to either himself or his target. He would pick his moment, picking his way between the crowds of people and busy trading stalls until his path intercepted that of the man and his companion. Then it would either be a sneaky dip into his pocket, or perhaps the old bump-and-stumble and a quick “so sorry master” before scurrying away with the man’s wallet. Marrik was confident that whichever he chose, he would have no difficulty escaping from an obvious stranger to the area.
The boy picked his moment, and weaved his way carefully through the throng. He approached the man, cut across past him, and as he rubbed past flicked his hand into the man’s inner pocket. It was the work of a moment to tuck the wallet away into the folds of his clothing. As the boy turned to make his escape, he happened to glance upwards... straight into the staring, enraged eyes of the clerk. Moving quick as a snake the clerk’s hand flew out to grab or strike at the boy, but Marrik was already ducking away; rolling to the side to escape the man’s grasp. The clerk’s arm whipped out, his long fingers catching at the frayed hem of the boys coat, but was thwarted by the greasy and worn material tearing away. Marrik rolled to his feet in one smooth, practised motion, and ran around the next corner, zigzagging through an alleyway and down the next street, away to safety.
---
Pleased with his spoils, Marrik treated himself to a couple of large horsemeat pasties from a street vendor; crispy and piping hot, fresh from the ovens. The baker had suspiciously tested his coins before grudgingly passing over the goods to the urchin but, to be fair on the man, Marrik had quietly stolen from his stall on several occasions. Sitting down on a battered crate in the mouth of an alleyway, to afford himself some minor privacy, he began to gorge himself. The thick shell crunched satisfactorily, dropping flakes of pastry down his clothes and hot grease down his chin. It had been a couple of days since his last proper meal, and he planned to enjoy every morsel.
As he began to fish the second pasty out of the bag, he heard a noise from deep within the shadows of the alley, which made him stand up ready to run. But it was only one of the many feral dogs that lived in the dark corners of the city, surviving on scraps. The boy peered down, past a loose sheet of metal leaning against the wall, and saw that it wasn't alone. A small huddle of pups were there, making a pathetic squeaking as they pulled away and tried to hide themselves from the boy. The mother was standing between Marrik and the pups, fur bristling, but it was clear that she was too weak to put up much of a fight. Starving was not reserved solely for the people of the slums. He looked at the hungry eyes of the pups and broke the pasty up into several pieces and dropped them behind the metal sheeting.
"Awfully kind of you" said a voice behind him, and the boy whipped around to face the entrance of the alley, his body already tensing up ready to flee, but before he could move, a hand wrapped tightly around his arm. It was the strange little clerk, gripping Marrik’s arm like a vice, and behind him the tall merchant was leaning nonchalantly against the wall of the alley. The boy tried to pull his arm away, looking around in a panic for a way of escape, but the clerk’s grip tightened, making Marrik grunt in pain.
"Please…” Marrik gasped, “..don't kill me!"
"Kill you boy?” the taller man grinned widely, his voice strong and cultured, “Bless you no. A boy your age who can get close enough to steal from under the watchful gaze of my friend here? Impressive in itself. But a boy who can then avoid, and even escape him.. well.." the man paused to look at the torn piece of coat in his hand, "..mostly escape, at any rate. Well, to kill you would be a waste, my lad. And I do so hate waste."
The man looked the boy up and down, taking in the mop of greasy hair and ragged clothing, and Marrik could feel him seeing through his facade.
“You seem to have a few skills of your own, boy. Where did you learn these things?”
“Nobody taught me nothin’” the boy replied sullenly, eyeing the clerk and testing the grip he had on his arm. The clerk squeezed, in a way that showed he could, if necessary, keep squeezing indefinitely. The boy winced, and his arm began to feel numb.
“I wouldn’t recommend testing my friend here, he is not in the best of moods since you got past him before. It is not a thing that often happens, but on the rare occasion it does, his wrath is generally… immediate. However, in your case, I feel an exception should be made. That is, of course, if you decide to take us up on my little offer.”
“Wha' offer?”
“My name is Argent, and I represent a certain… group.” his lip curled into a smile. “And I do believe a lad like you could do well with us. That is, of course, if you decide to come with us." The boy grimaced, his mind flashing back to the Clergy House, and the Deacon's vile lusts. Argent seemed to read Marrik’s expression, and laughed. "No, boy, not to be a plaything of the bored and degenerate. Much more like... a tool. To be forged, shaped, and sharpened, and then, who knows!"
“Goin’ to turn me into a merchant? A trader or summat?”
“Excuse me?” Argent seemed confused, before realisation smoothed his brow. “Ahha lad, no, not quite.” He gestured towards his outfit, “This is just a costume, a more elaborate one than yours to be sure, but still just another way to go unnoticed through the world.”
“You ain’t too good then are you, you made a right juicy mark...” Marrik’s voice tailed off, and he glanced up into the mans smiling eyes.
“Yes indeed, I’m sure everyone thought as you did. A trader out to spend his money, fresh off the ship and overflowing with cash. There are many different ways of hiding, not all of which involve being unseen. This is among many things you may learn, in time.” The boy looked up at the man, taking in the rich cut of his clothes; all part of some elaborate deception. He looked too at the simple suit of the clerk, who was also not quite what he seemed. Curiosity bloomed within him, but Marrik knew how things worked in this city. Everything has a price. Often, when someone gave you a choice, it was really no choice at all.
"And if i say no, wot then? You gonna turn me in?"
"Oh, don't worry about that, we wouldn't dream of bothering the guards with a little thing like this!" This seemed to be met with a grunt from the clerk beside him, but when the boy glanced around, his face was blank; the look in his cold, expressionless eyes sent shivers down Marrik’s spine. He looked back towards Argent, who was much easier to look at. A thought struck him.
"Will there be food?"
"Oh I'm sure a loaf or two can be thrown your way my lad!" the man said, throwing a wink towards the clerk, who did not react even slightly. “However, don’t start thinking this will be all fun and free food. It won’t be easy. You will have to set yourself to learning all you are taught, to the best of your abilities. Skills you will need to survive in your new role. But if you buckle down, take it all in, we may just turn you into a man of the world!” He finished flamboyantly. Marrik considered his choices. While the prospect of learning and hard work had never appealed to him (and he would be worried about the people it did appeal to), the chance to get off the streets and end up… where? Anywhere that wasn’t here would be a good start.
“Where are we going?” Marrik asked.
“Does that mean you have decided to join us? Is there no-one around you need to ask, or inform?” The boy glanced back towards the slums, the only home he had ever known. Towards the few people he knew, some more than others, but none well. He shook his head.
“Nah. I’m ready.”
“Well then, lets go lad. A new future awaits!” Argent threw his arm around the boy, leading him off down the street. Behind them, unseen, the clerk slipped his blade back into his belt, and followed.

Often, when someone gives you a choice, it really is no choice at all.

Description
Marrik
Small and skinny, with grubby dark hair and his face smeared with the grime, Marrik is the picture of hunger and starvation. He trudges down the street, taking care not to draw attention to himself, and the people around him do their part by ignoring him in turn. No-one likes to watch the suffering of others, especially the suffering of children - better to pretend that they simply aren’t there. Marrik is aware of this, and uses it to his advantage; making sure to keep his clothes dishevelled and his face grimy, he projects the appearance of a downtrodden denizen of the slums. He had learnt long ago that looking too healthy on these streets can single someone out as a target, and had found that old tallow gives the skin a certain unhealthy pallor. On a hot day it has been known to attract stray dogs from the slums, but dogs are easier to deal with than the other predators that can be found lurking in the shadows.
Marrik makes his way through the crowded streets, invisible and unimportant. His appearance is the only armour he can afford, one which gives him freedom to explore many of the more populous parts of the city. In the richer areas he would be turned aside, or killed out of hand, by the men who were paid to keep the pathways of the privileged free from the clutter of the poor and needy. On the other hand, in the degenerate lower part of the city, no matter how poor and worthless a person appears, someone may prey on you for some nefarious purpose of their own.
Marrik never went near those kinds of places, as the rewards were few and the risks many. Better to stay in the anonymity of crowds, weaving between the rich and poor alike, making the rich poorer as he went. This was his gift, the reason that he had managed to avoid starvation in the slums. A quick mind, quick eyes, quick hands and, when necessary, a quick pair of feet to get him out of trouble; although trouble rarely happened as he was far too subtle and swift. Most did not notice their possessions were missing until long after he had weaved his way back into the crowd. Marrik had never questioned his willingness to steal away someone else's trinkets and treasures to pay for his own sustenance and survival. This was simply how life worked in the city, and it was better than spending a restless night with an empty belly gnawing at him.
Marrik had been stealing to feed himself for almost two years now, ever since he had escaped from the lower-city orphanage. Children were a valuable commodity, and few escaped for long before being captured and returned. A few children are lucky enough to be taken in by tradesmen as apprentices, but the rest are kept until they earn their freedom some other way. Some orphanage masters will trade children to workhouses, or the flesh pits; either case being a death sentence or a living nightmare.
Marrik had thought himself lucky at first, when he had been chosen to be sent to the clergy house in temple square. It did not take long for him to learn that the High Deacon’s tastes were no different from those who frequented the brothels of the flesh pits. Marrik still sometimes awoke from dark dreams; dreams of the Deacon’s rictus grin and that bulbous red-veined nose, the stink of his breath after a night of drinking, and the stubble that scratched against his young cheek as he tried so hard not to cry.
He shook these thoughts away and focuses his gaze on the busy street, noticing a rich looking man wearing the long fur-lined coat that was the fashion among the upper-city merchants. The boy found himself gravitating towards the man, not only because of the rich cut of his outfit, but also the distracted way he was walking; as if wandering without a care through the common trading streets was a normal thing to do. People with such an uncaring view of the lower-city rarely left it as rich as they entered, and often not as vertically. Clearly the man was not local, as he seemed unaware of the dangers around him. He was sauntering through the street as if he owned it, trading words with a smaller man beside him. Dressed in a tidy little suit, complete with a small bowled hat and a pair of wire spectacles perched on his nose, this man had the definite air of a clerk. With his hands held demurely in front of him, he at least seemed wary of the people around him; at least on the rare occasion that the eddies and swirls of the crowd pulled him away from his tall companion. He would quickly return to his side, as if safety could be found there, though with such an obviously rich target nearby the clerk would probably remain unnoticed.
Marrik began to follow at a discrete distance, avoiding drawing attention to either himself or his target. He would pick his moment, picking his way between the crowds of people and busy trading stalls until his path intercepted that of the man and his companion. Then it would either be a sneaky dip into his pocket, or perhaps the old bump-and-stumble and a quick “so sorry master” before scurrying away with the man’s wallet. Marrik was confident that whichever he chose, he would have no difficulty escaping from an obvious stranger to the area.
The boy picked his moment, and weaved his way carefully through the throng. He approached the man, cut across past him, and as he rubbed past flicked his hand into the man’s inner pocket. It was the work of a moment to tuck the wallet away into the folds of his clothing. As the boy turned to make his escape, he happened to glance upwards... straight into the staring, enraged eyes of the clerk. Moving quick as a snake the clerk’s hand flew out to grab or strike at the boy, but Marrik was already ducking away; rolling to the side to escape the man’s grasp. The clerk’s arm whipped out, his long fingers catching at the frayed hem of the boys coat, but was thwarted by the greasy and worn material tearing away. Marrik rolled to his feet in one smooth, practised motion, and ran around the next corner, zigzagging through an alleyway and down the next street, away to safety.
---
Pleased with his spoils, Marrik treated himself to a couple of large horsemeat pasties from a street vendor; crispy and piping hot, fresh from the ovens. The baker had suspiciously tested his coins before grudgingly passing over the goods to the urchin but, to be fair on the man, Marrik had quietly stolen from his stall on several occasions. Sitting down on a battered crate in the mouth of an alleyway, to afford himself some minor privacy, he began to gorge himself. The thick shell crunched satisfactorily, dropping flakes of pastry down his clothes and hot grease down his chin. It had been a couple of days since his last proper meal, and he planned to enjoy every morsel.
As he began to fish the second pasty out of the bag, he heard a noise from deep within the shadows of the alley, which made him stand up ready to run. But it was only one of the many feral dogs that lived in the dark corners of the city, surviving on scraps. The boy peered down, past a loose sheet of metal leaning against the wall, and saw that it wasn't alone. A small huddle of pups were there, making a pathetic squeaking as they pulled away and tried to hide themselves from the boy. The mother was standing between Marrik and the pups, fur bristling, but it was clear that she was too weak to put up much of a fight. Starving was not reserved solely for the people of the slums. He looked at the hungry eyes of the pups and broke the pasty up into several pieces and dropped them behind the metal sheeting.
"Awfully kind of you" said a voice behind him, and the boy whipped around to face the entrance of the alley, his body already tensing up ready to flee, but before he could move, a hand wrapped tightly around his arm. It was the strange little clerk, gripping Marrik’s arm like a vice, and behind him the tall merchant was leaning nonchalantly against the wall of the alley. The boy tried to pull his arm away, looking around in a panic for a way of escape, but the clerk’s grip tightened, making Marrik grunt in pain.
"Please…” Marrik gasped, “..don't kill me!"
"Kill you boy?” the taller man grinned widely, his voice strong and cultured, “Bless you no. A boy your age who can get close enough to steal from under the watchful gaze of my friend here? Impressive in itself. But a boy who can then avoid, and even escape him.. well.." the man paused to look at the torn piece of coat in his hand, "..mostly escape, at any rate. Well, to kill you would be a waste, my lad. And I do so hate waste."
The man looked the boy up and down, taking in the mop of greasy hair and ragged clothing, and Marrik could feel him seeing through his facade.
“You seem to have a few skills of your own, boy. Where did you learn these things?”
“Nobody taught me nothin’” the boy replied sullenly, eyeing the clerk and testing the grip he had on his arm. The clerk squeezed, in a way that showed he could, if necessary, keep squeezing indefinitely. The boy winced, and his arm began to feel numb.
“I wouldn’t recommend testing my friend here, he is not in the best of moods since you got past him before. It is not a thing that often happens, but on the rare occasion it does, his wrath is generally… immediate. However, in your case, I feel an exception should be made. That is, of course, if you decide to take us up on my little offer.”
“Wha' offer?”
“My name is Argent, and I represent a certain… group.” his lip curled into a smile. “And I do believe a lad like you could do well with us. That is, of course, if you decide to come with us." The boy grimaced, his mind flashing back to the Clergy House, and the Deacon's vile lusts. Argent seemed to read Marrik’s expression, and laughed. "No, boy, not to be a plaything of the bored and degenerate. Much more like... a tool. To be forged, shaped, and sharpened, and then, who knows!"
“Goin’ to turn me into a merchant? A trader or summat?”
“Excuse me?” Argent seemed confused, before realisation smoothed his brow. “Ahha lad, no, not quite.” He gestured towards his outfit, “This is just a costume, a more elaborate one than yours to be sure, but still just another way to go unnoticed through the world.”
“You ain’t too good then are you, you made a right juicy mark...” Marrik’s voice tailed off, and he glanced up into the mans smiling eyes.
“Yes indeed, I’m sure everyone thought as you did. A trader out to spend his money, fresh off the ship and overflowing with cash. There are many different ways of hiding, not all of which involve being unseen. This is among many things you may learn, in time.” The boy looked up at the man, taking in the rich cut of his clothes; all part of some elaborate deception. He looked too at the simple suit of the clerk, who was also not quite what he seemed. Curiosity bloomed within him, but Marrik knew how things worked in this city. Everything has a price. Often, when someone gave you a choice, it was really no choice at all.
"And if i say no, wot then? You gonna turn me in?"
"Oh, don't worry about that, we wouldn't dream of bothering the guards with a little thing like this!" This seemed to be met with a grunt from the clerk beside him, but when the boy glanced around, his face was blank; the look in his cold, expressionless eyes sent shivers down Marrik’s spine. He looked back towards Argent, who was much easier to look at. A thought struck him.
"Will there be food?"
"Oh I'm sure a loaf or two can be thrown your way my lad!" the man said, throwing a wink towards the clerk, who did not react even slightly. “However, don’t start thinking this will be all fun and free food. It won’t be easy. You will have to set yourself to learning all you are taught, to the best of your abilities. Skills you will need to survive in your new role. But if you buckle down, take it all in, we may just turn you into a man of the world!” He finished flamboyantly. Marrik considered his choices. While the prospect of learning and hard work had never appealed to him (and he would be worried about the people it did appeal to), the chance to get off the streets and end up… where? Anywhere that wasn’t here would be a good start.
“Where are we going?” Marrik asked.
“Does that mean you have decided to join us? Is there no-one around you need to ask, or inform?” The boy glanced back towards the slums, the only home he had ever known. Towards the few people he knew, some more than others, but none well. He shook his head.
“Nah. I’m ready.”
“Well then, lets go lad. A new future awaits!” Argent threw his arm around the boy, leading him off down the street. Behind them, unseen, the clerk slipped his blade back into his belt, and followed.

Often, when someone gives you a choice, it really is no choice at all.