To an outsider, humanity has many interesting traits and characteristics. Many mortals carry with them an ideal, a rosy glass they look through, that defines their surroundings according to what life is supposed to be. Few can see others for what they truly are, and none can truly see themselves. "The easiest of emotions to take advantage of is love," it is said, "Because love turns to jealousy, hate, and rage as easily as the sun sets at night."
Mothers should teach their daughters to be pure, but oh so often it is the mothers who are lustful. Fathers should teach their little boys to be strong, but it's so easy to hit and so easy to abandon. "I should save my money. I should stop drinking. I should tell him I love him," these are the kinds of phrases that mortals think and feel, before they continue to delude themselves into spending another dollar, having another drink, and finding themselves in the arms of someone they despise.
* * * * *
It wasn't raining, but the clouds hung heavy and low in the skies, pregnant with moisture. Jorenn found himself thinking that it would be easier to deal with if the rain would just come. The heat was oppressive, the humidity sweltering, and the boy dashed through the lower warehouses of the dockside in one of his known shortcuts.
He was late, and Jorenn knew he would get an earful from his mother when he got home as he sped down the cobbled bricks. He clutched a brown paper sack to his chest, taking another right into the dark alley behind the fishmonger's stall and down the wet streets. Inside the package were three loaves of bread, his wages for the week at the bakery. His job was nothing special, cleaning the ovens and taking out the trash, but Baker Matson let him leave every third day with a loaf of bread.
Today he had been especially generous. His mother would be happy, as times had been hard. His sister had gotten sick, and with little food lately she was struggling to get stronger. Still, Jorenn's stomach growled in time with the slapping of his feet against the stones, and he considered stopping for a moment to fill his appetite a bit before continuing on. He was already late, after all.
The warnings of his mother not to stay in the dockside after dark were lost on his ear as he slid to a seat against the back wall of one of the shipping warehouses. In the distance, down one end of the alley, he could make out the watchtower from the Marketplace, his intended destination. Glancing around to make sure he was alone, he opened the bag and tore off a hunk of his wages and began to devour it hungrily.
Too late he heard the heavily booted footsteps. Looking up frightfully, he saw the light from the alley opening blocked by a large man. He towered above the small boy, moving himself close. One eye stared at him with baleful intent, rage from countless wrongs festering inside the man. His stench, old ale and rotten meat, wafted around Jorenn until he thought he would throw up. "It's a little late to be out, boy," the man growled, "Leave the bag and empty your pockets."
Mothers should teach their daughters to be pure, but oh so often it is the mothers who are lustful. Fathers should teach their little boys to be strong, but it's so easy to hit and so easy to abandon. "I should save my money. I should stop drinking. I should tell him I love him," these are the kinds of phrases that mortals think and feel, before they continue to delude themselves into spending another dollar, having another drink, and finding themselves in the arms of someone they despise.
* * * * *
It wasn't raining, but the clouds hung heavy and low in the skies, pregnant with moisture. Jorenn found himself thinking that it would be easier to deal with if the rain would just come. The heat was oppressive, the humidity sweltering, and the boy dashed through the lower warehouses of the dockside in one of his known shortcuts.
He was late, and Jorenn knew he would get an earful from his mother when he got home as he sped down the cobbled bricks. He clutched a brown paper sack to his chest, taking another right into the dark alley behind the fishmonger's stall and down the wet streets. Inside the package were three loaves of bread, his wages for the week at the bakery. His job was nothing special, cleaning the ovens and taking out the trash, but Baker Matson let him leave every third day with a loaf of bread.
Today he had been especially generous. His mother would be happy, as times had been hard. His sister had gotten sick, and with little food lately she was struggling to get stronger. Still, Jorenn's stomach growled in time with the slapping of his feet against the stones, and he considered stopping for a moment to fill his appetite a bit before continuing on. He was already late, after all.
The warnings of his mother not to stay in the dockside after dark were lost on his ear as he slid to a seat against the back wall of one of the shipping warehouses. In the distance, down one end of the alley, he could make out the watchtower from the Marketplace, his intended destination. Glancing around to make sure he was alone, he opened the bag and tore off a hunk of his wages and began to devour it hungrily.
Too late he heard the heavily booted footsteps. Looking up frightfully, he saw the light from the alley opening blocked by a large man. He towered above the small boy, moving himself close. One eye stared at him with baleful intent, rage from countless wrongs festering inside the man. His stench, old ale and rotten meat, wafted around Jorenn until he thought he would throw up. "It's a little late to be out, boy," the man growled, "Leave the bag and empty your pockets."