Loshis 22
A
familiar wind blew westward. It stank of fish, salt, and spice. Relief warmed Django's bones as Old Rose Harbor crept into view. It wasn't home, but any port in a storm. He patted Weatherly as she ambled onwards, "Urba is close rosh, then yats n caoja for us both."
Near the city Django veered Weatherly off the road. Only tourists entered through Castle Hill, and fools through Barret Park. Django's choice of ingress was none other than Angler's Alley. If any honest folk lived in Old Rose Harbor, it was the fishermen.
Weatherly plodded through the empty streets, nearly devoid of life by dawn. Only the urchins remained after the boats went out. Django maneuvered through the alley to Quarter Fords, where more eyes stared him down but fewer tongues talked. Then at last came the welcoming racket of King's Court. The air buzzed with opportunity as the business day commenced, though Django focused entirely on his next meal.
They beelined for the Jolly Taxpayer, the inn of choice for those with no choice. Its jaunty shingles housed most of the King's Court entertainers, primarily because nicer lodgings cost thrice as much. The tavern was crowded but cozy, a haven where nary a night went by without revelry. Django stabled Weatherly and plunged into the din.
Django bounced three coins, two tallies and a shill, off the hardwood bar. Everyone who lodged here knew this denomination: three pints, two meals, one room. He winked at the witch tending bar, "hesta nanabo, get me some vraun an' I'll play you a gkacha later, oes?"
The witch swiped up his coins, but dismissed Django, "fish soup today." She appraised the dusty Wick, "and not without a shower, kov."
Django scrunched up his empty coin purse, "c'mon olio I don't have the coin for that." He watched as she disappeared into the kitchen.
She returned momentarily with soup and a retort, "Yeah plenty other spokes that do though."
"Suit yourself, I need to find some qalqa." Django scoffed at her dismissal, though it chafed at his pride anyway.
"You know that's not my job."
Django guffawed as the witch slid the soup in front of him, "anyone in this stinking urbo work for themselves anymore? Enterprise and all that."
"Look kov, I'm busy."
Django let it go, "guess I go pay my respects eh." He dipped his spoon into the salty broth and sighed. The witch nodded with a touch of sympathy, but quickly returned to the grind of patrons and their jingling purses.
A full belly later Django took to the streets, though the other buskers had long since taken the best spots. No matter, opportunities abounded not ten blocks from here. Django made his way to mock king Hawke's palace.
The streets grew calmer and the air still as Django neared the infamous den. This place was unmistakably owned, and not at all welcoming. Those who dwelled here watched every step forward, and every breath taken, with keen intent. From Django's experience, a Big Brother usually accosted him right about…