Somewhere secret | Evening
45 Roalis 2720
Gale had one unopened bottle and a half an open bottle of whiskey. They had been staring at the pair of them sitting on the workbench in the forge for the last half an hour, brow knitted together in careful contemplation. The Prohibition had been ongoing for a few days now; the special Viendan Elite Corps were still ploughing their way through the lower races establishments meaning the common citizens still had time to scrabble about and find ways to stash their now illegal drink.
The smith frowned.
How many tin flower planters had they made over the last few days? 'Many' was the answer, each narrow and a few inches taller than a standard bottle. Whatever they decided to do with them was of little to no interest to Gale, and not knowing was the better option. Plausible deniability and all that. But people were already getting tense, unhappy with one of their few sources of enjoyment being taken from them.
Gale placed their hands on either side of the bottles. When the news came through they had considered using it as an opportunity to stop drinking, cleanse the body and purify the mind. The first few hours were fine, a small headache, a bit foggy on the thinking. A day later they were a curled up mess at the foot of their bed, cold sweats and shivering, their insides threatening to rip open while their head raged with such fury that they were certain decapitation was the only way out.
And then there was the thirst, hungering and demanding one thing from them.
Alcohol.
Somehow they managed to crawl their way from their bed to the bottle, suckled from the dry malt whiskey, and spend the rest of the day gathering their bearings while their body grew quiet to the pain and their stomach relaxed.
Not drinking was simply not an option.
Which lead them to the current present dilemma. There was one and a half - now minus one-shot - bottles of whiskey on their workbench. Already Gale was easing their thoughts with the gentle buzz, quietly swirling around the tiny shot glass filled with their chosen poison. They were not drunk, they could still think and focus on things - but the edge had been neatly taken off.
Two bottles, a Quart and a half between them - two pints and a half, or something like that. The exact amounts were not important right in this instance. The bigger question was how they were going to keep their addiction fed but also not get caught. Who knew how long the prohibition would go on? Was there even a way they could stretch it out for a potential forever? No, they needed to narrow it all down and think smaller, shorter-term - a few months perhaps. But how?
Gale drank the tot of whiskey, letting it burn down their gullet and settle in their stomach. Going sober was not an option, they needed to work and going through withdrawal was something they could not face. Not now.
The Galdor will pay for this. Somehow.
The thought was venomous; something that crept around the back of their skull and threatened to be drawn into violence. They placed the glass down, lips pulling as they let the momentary flare of anger go. It was not worth it. Not long after the alcohol brought something else, a slow trickling awareness slithering from the recesses of their mind and stilling their hands. They breathed, the side of their mouth pulling into a half-smile.
"Give 'em shit."
Deep beneath the city, somewhere in the twisted tunnels in the How, Artful had called a meeting. Within the sunken ruins of what may have once been a spire some centuries ago, the lanterns glowed, the murmurings of a rabble having gathered this evening. Apparently, there was a plan afoot, some scheme to get back at the Galdori. It would easy to brush them off as eager, yet as Artful made their presence known they pushed their way through the crowd and up to a broken column.
Artful felt awful, their tired eyes were bruised in their sockets and their skin felt sticky against the back of their neck - it was nerves they told themselves. They stopped short of it, stubbing out their cigarette and putting the straggly remains into their tin, letting out the last of the smoke from their lungs. There was a small nod, a sip from a large water canteen, the contents being a mix of one-sixth whiskey and five-sixths water. They decided that day drinking in smaller weaker quantities was how they would get through this, for now, to exist in a state of being constantly buzzed and in a state of mild intoxication.
Artful puffed their cheeks gave a nod and clambered up onto the column.
A couple of feet above the heads of others, Artful swallowed, their eyes darting between the onlookers. How the fuck did Jon Serro- no, any of the leaders do this? How did they look down upon the expectant faces and tell them what they wanted to hear?
Public speaking was never their strong point, sober or not. Their nostrils flared, fists squeezing tightly as they tried to find their internal steel. Cold, metal, constant, unmoving - they focused on a tiny point in the middle, trying their best not to focus on anyone in particular. Artful let the tense breath loose, their hands relaxing and raising up to their chest.
Speak.
"My Brothers and Sisters." Artful spoke not just with voice but also with their hands, clear-toned as they did their best to minimise their accent. "Thank you for coming."
They smirked.
"Normally this would be when our glorious leader would say something about us being crushed underfoot and how we would rise up." Their teeth peaked from between their lips, a clenched fist raised in emphasis. They released it and continued to speak. "But I am no glorious leader. I am you, the one and the many. The thorn in the side of those supposed Galdori Elite."
The crowd gave a jeer at the mentioning of the Elite, and Gale raised a hand in silence.
"We all know the stories, on how we are bent and buckled underfoot. On how they take away what we have earned without the slightest provocation just because in their eyes we will never be enough. They think we are nothing but dirt, nay, worse than dirt and they would have us believe it. And some of us do. They think we are incapable of anything without him, think of us as nothing but whipped dogs. They think we are helpless, nothing but weak without Jon Serro." Artful inhaled, their jaw tensing as they looked upon the cadets.
They were breathing a little hard, aware of the slight ringing in their head. Was it always this warm? Or was this what the sensation of eyes upon them felt like? They bit their lip, their voice lowering.
"But we are not helpless. We are so much more than just one man. Together we can do so much, achieve so much - we can prove that nothing is certain."
Their chest was hurting, straining as they looked to those eyes that stared back as if waiting for some cue. Artful looked across their faces, slowly speaking as their teeth bared and their voice turned to a snarl.
"So I say if they believe us to be nothing but shit, let's show them what it's really like to be knee-deep in it."
The plan, they had to get on with the plan - they waved away the quiet murmurings the questionings of if this meant Gale was to riot.
"I am no Jon Serro. To me you are cadets, but you are so much more than just soldiers of the resistance. You are workers, crafters, medicine makers, runners and warriors of freedom." Their throat croaked. "We are so much more than just hatred. We are smart, we are cunning and so I propose we give them a taste of what the soot district is really like."
Artful gave a wicked grin, eyes bright as they threw their arms wide.
"Let's block up their Uptown sewers and let them wade in their own shit."
The smith frowned.
How many tin flower planters had they made over the last few days? 'Many' was the answer, each narrow and a few inches taller than a standard bottle. Whatever they decided to do with them was of little to no interest to Gale, and not knowing was the better option. Plausible deniability and all that. But people were already getting tense, unhappy with one of their few sources of enjoyment being taken from them.
Gale placed their hands on either side of the bottles. When the news came through they had considered using it as an opportunity to stop drinking, cleanse the body and purify the mind. The first few hours were fine, a small headache, a bit foggy on the thinking. A day later they were a curled up mess at the foot of their bed, cold sweats and shivering, their insides threatening to rip open while their head raged with such fury that they were certain decapitation was the only way out.
And then there was the thirst, hungering and demanding one thing from them.
Alcohol.
Somehow they managed to crawl their way from their bed to the bottle, suckled from the dry malt whiskey, and spend the rest of the day gathering their bearings while their body grew quiet to the pain and their stomach relaxed.
Not drinking was simply not an option.
Which lead them to the current present dilemma. There was one and a half - now minus one-shot - bottles of whiskey on their workbench. Already Gale was easing their thoughts with the gentle buzz, quietly swirling around the tiny shot glass filled with their chosen poison. They were not drunk, they could still think and focus on things - but the edge had been neatly taken off.
Two bottles, a Quart and a half between them - two pints and a half, or something like that. The exact amounts were not important right in this instance. The bigger question was how they were going to keep their addiction fed but also not get caught. Who knew how long the prohibition would go on? Was there even a way they could stretch it out for a potential forever? No, they needed to narrow it all down and think smaller, shorter-term - a few months perhaps. But how?
Gale drank the tot of whiskey, letting it burn down their gullet and settle in their stomach. Going sober was not an option, they needed to work and going through withdrawal was something they could not face. Not now.
The Galdor will pay for this. Somehow.
The thought was venomous; something that crept around the back of their skull and threatened to be drawn into violence. They placed the glass down, lips pulling as they let the momentary flare of anger go. It was not worth it. Not long after the alcohol brought something else, a slow trickling awareness slithering from the recesses of their mind and stilling their hands. They breathed, the side of their mouth pulling into a half-smile.
"Give 'em shit."
Deep beneath the city, somewhere in the twisted tunnels in the How, Artful had called a meeting. Within the sunken ruins of what may have once been a spire some centuries ago, the lanterns glowed, the murmurings of a rabble having gathered this evening. Apparently, there was a plan afoot, some scheme to get back at the Galdori. It would easy to brush them off as eager, yet as Artful made their presence known they pushed their way through the crowd and up to a broken column.
Artful felt awful, their tired eyes were bruised in their sockets and their skin felt sticky against the back of their neck - it was nerves they told themselves. They stopped short of it, stubbing out their cigarette and putting the straggly remains into their tin, letting out the last of the smoke from their lungs. There was a small nod, a sip from a large water canteen, the contents being a mix of one-sixth whiskey and five-sixths water. They decided that day drinking in smaller weaker quantities was how they would get through this, for now, to exist in a state of being constantly buzzed and in a state of mild intoxication.
Artful puffed their cheeks gave a nod and clambered up onto the column.
A couple of feet above the heads of others, Artful swallowed, their eyes darting between the onlookers. How the fuck did Jon Serro- no, any of the leaders do this? How did they look down upon the expectant faces and tell them what they wanted to hear?
Public speaking was never their strong point, sober or not. Their nostrils flared, fists squeezing tightly as they tried to find their internal steel. Cold, metal, constant, unmoving - they focused on a tiny point in the middle, trying their best not to focus on anyone in particular. Artful let the tense breath loose, their hands relaxing and raising up to their chest.
Speak.
"My Brothers and Sisters." Artful spoke not just with voice but also with their hands, clear-toned as they did their best to minimise their accent. "Thank you for coming."
They smirked.
"Normally this would be when our glorious leader would say something about us being crushed underfoot and how we would rise up." Their teeth peaked from between their lips, a clenched fist raised in emphasis. They released it and continued to speak. "But I am no glorious leader. I am you, the one and the many. The thorn in the side of those supposed Galdori Elite."
The crowd gave a jeer at the mentioning of the Elite, and Gale raised a hand in silence.
"We all know the stories, on how we are bent and buckled underfoot. On how they take away what we have earned without the slightest provocation just because in their eyes we will never be enough. They think we are nothing but dirt, nay, worse than dirt and they would have us believe it. And some of us do. They think we are incapable of anything without him, think of us as nothing but whipped dogs. They think we are helpless, nothing but weak without Jon Serro." Artful inhaled, their jaw tensing as they looked upon the cadets.
They were breathing a little hard, aware of the slight ringing in their head. Was it always this warm? Or was this what the sensation of eyes upon them felt like? They bit their lip, their voice lowering.
"But we are not helpless. We are so much more than just one man. Together we can do so much, achieve so much - we can prove that nothing is certain."
Their chest was hurting, straining as they looked to those eyes that stared back as if waiting for some cue. Artful looked across their faces, slowly speaking as their teeth bared and their voice turned to a snarl.
"So I say if they believe us to be nothing but shit, let's show them what it's really like to be knee-deep in it."
The plan, they had to get on with the plan - they waved away the quiet murmurings the questionings of if this meant Gale was to riot.
"I am no Jon Serro. To me you are cadets, but you are so much more than just soldiers of the resistance. You are workers, crafters, medicine makers, runners and warriors of freedom." Their throat croaked. "We are so much more than just hatred. We are smart, we are cunning and so I propose we give them a taste of what the soot district is really like."
Artful gave a wicked grin, eyes bright as they threw their arms wide.
"Let's block up their Uptown sewers and let them wade in their own shit."
