Search Posts
It is a short way back up river to the place where the injured man clinges for his life to the pile. To the humans he is invisible in the dark night, but to Erevan his presence is still discernible in the cold water of the Riek.
The rest of the economic refugees have cleared the wharf by the time the ragged group, and their beasts are all ashore. The crew of the ship cast looks over every so often, talking to one another in a Rivermans Cant. Every so often one of the men laughs at some private joke. Plans for the future may want to wait, all those who travelled upon the boat are carrying the fatigue of travel. Add to that, that it is late already and the night is dark and full of terrors, and it would probably be wise to look for somewhere to sleep, at least until morning. Fortunately, there are many inns in Nuln. The nearest of which can be seen near by, its sign has been painted with the image of a severed pigs head, it's eyes stitched shut. Stevedores lug large crates down the wharf, and lug them on bored to be stowed away.
Fate must be laughing upon the elf and Gerhart, for no rope that is not rotten through can easily be found. Things look up for a moment when the elf finds a small rowing boat, but close inspection reveals it lacks as bottom. Only heroic effort in swimming to the dying man will be enough now it seems.
Slowly but surely the crush subsides, as the crowds burst out onto the deck, and from there filter onto dry land. Only a few of the patient or perhaps fool hardy remain in the hold. Two crew men, their mouths and noses covered with kerchiefs, stomp down into the hold carrying heavy blankets. The make their way over towards the plagued couple, throwing the blankets over them, and busying themselves with rolling the pair up to carry out of the hold. A third member of the crew starts to make preperation to wink the horses ashore.
The crowd surges forwards, its members frustrated and near panic from the disease that they have been shut in with. Cries of pain ring out through the crowd, as members of the throng are trampled. Before Gottfried can raise himself, he is already being kicked and trampled by the throng, but he manages to start to force his ways to his feet. Before he can rise fully however, a middenlander built like a mountain, stumbles over Gottfried, and stands heavily on his ankle. trample.
From here, down in the sucking, slimmy mud of the rivers bank, it is possible to see the human clinging desperately to the large wooden mooring pile some way out into the river. His sobs of pain and desperation can just be heard above the nocturnal sounds of the river.
Back on the Harlot of Mordenheim On deck Leopold the Ears keeps half an eye on the water, but no ‘swimmer’ passes in view to be relieved of it possessions. Soon enough the barge is nudging in against the que. The crew, all save the captain, jump ashore, busying themselves tying off. The captain, a man named Johan Wizzenman, checks the barge is safe, then walks to the prow, carefully removing a purse from his waist. From the purse he fishes three golden Karls before jumping down onto the pier. Once on the relatively solid walkway, Wizzenman makes his way towards dry land and the unsually fat man waiting with two attendants where earth begins and mud ends. Wizzenman presses the coins into the man’s hand. ‘Brother Engerman, good to see you. It shouldn’t take long to get his lot off, then we’ll be out of your hair, and on our way down stream.’ says wizzenman [i]‘Be quick about it then Brother Wizzenman. The harbour master is starting to actually pay attention lately, better your out of hear sharpish. I have your cargo weighting.’ says Engerman, his mole like eyes crinkling up in his pudgy face as he tries to see though the dim light. Wizzenman nods before trotting back down the wharf, and vaulting onto the vessal. From his sleeve he pulls a large heavy key , and bends down to unlock the hold. ‘Right you skum., we’re here, you can get the hell of my boat now you filthy gits.’ he roars, pulling open the hatch.
Pistol shot alone rarely kills, so it should be no surprise that Gerhart survived the attack. He clings to a mooring pile some twenty feet out, and thirty feet down stream battling shock and the cold with his life as the stakes. What might be a surprise is that for all their legends of the sharpness of elven eyes, the wandering story teller does not see Gerhart.
Elsewhere in Nuln. The shadows are deep outside of the three cats brothel, covering everything like like velvet. The river laps at the short some few feet away, washing flotsam and jetsam up the muddy edge. The floor is hard here, in the alley way between the house of ill repute and its neighbour , but it provides shelter from the wind and a chances to rest for a few minutes, before continuing the search for the Blind Pig Tavern. Whatever chance at rest there might have been is shattered in a moment when the front door of the brothel slams open. From within, a frenzied polka is the dance of the night, and the light escaping from the door casts lurid and flickering shadows across the narrow gap between building and water. The light is blotted out as a man is thrown to the ground, he rolls in the mud, carried by the momentum of the throw, covering him river muck. A moment later three burly Nulners exit the building, quick on his tail. They wear filthy clothing and to elven senses the stench is sickening. The left most of the group raises a battered looking pistol, levelling it at the poor wretch. "Please guv, it ain't my fault." pleads the mud covered wretch, as he tries to rise to his feet. "Holster says bye bye, Gerhart." says the man with the pistol, then there is a bright flash and a report, that echos out across the river. The other two move over to the body and heave it into the water, before the group retreats inside, closing the door and muffling the sound of the dance within. Quiet descends upon the alley way again, save for the creaking of a bed in the room above it, and the groans of an aged river barge out on the river, making its way to dock.
After a long pause, Leopold the Ears, ugliest of the legendarily unattractive crew, forces himself not to smirk before mumbling to the first mate. ”Hanz, I think some gits gone swimmin'.” The sound he makes is like a whippet being choked on a live ferrit, and identifiable as laughter only by several weeks of exposure to his slow witted humour and hidious laugh. Hanz’ laugh is little better, something like a mill stone turning. "Thinks ya might be right." he replies. The yell from below deck grabs the pairs attention for a moment. Hanz strides over to the hatch, stamping on it three times with all his might.
Below, the passengers shift, and slowly start togather their possessions. What little space their is near the hatch get rarer and rarer, as they crowd in to escape onto land.
The heavy bar across the hatch above the hold rattles as the young farmer tries it again. Above the crew ignore their cargo's attempts at freedom, more interested in getting to shore safely, and just as fearful of the outbreak of plague below.
|