Wintis 56, 1982 [E.o.S (7)] (Eighty Nine Days Later)

Dark clouds rumbled low with thunder, accompanying a repeated slam on the door.

*THUNK THUNK THUNK*

“HEY! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE! OPEN THE DANG DOOR!”

There was no response except the protesting squeaks of the flimsy wooden door.

Dang it!

This dumpy old shack was where Gene and his parents lived, and I knew they were home! Those fricking dirt clumps never left the house except to gather up a bunch of trash. Oh, and buy Skid.

It was too cold for trash harvesting, and last time I spoke to Gene he’d said his parents were upset because their ‘guy’ stopped selling Skid. So they had to be home.

Something was wrong. Horribly wrong. I could feel it. I hadn’t seen Gene in two and a half tenner, a solid twenty five whole days. Not seeing him for five? Ten days? Not that unusual.

Gene’s parents—by His Majesty, did I hate his parents— would sometimes keep him locked up inside for days on end. They’d make him do all sorts of bull-crap, like sort and pick through all of the trash they collected in order to scrounge up something they could sell. Stuff like that.

Usually when his parents got into one of those ‘phases’, it lasted about three to five days. Before this, the longest was fifteen. After that one, Gene and I came up with our own system to communicate while he was trapped inside. At least so I could make sure he was like, alive, you know?

The back of Gene’s ‘house’, like a lot of the houses around here, served as part of the wall for one of the many back alley-ways. It wasn’t pretty. A buffet of garbage and various—ugh—liquids, the usual back alley muck.

But it was open space, and you could walk right up to the back of Gene’s bedroom wall. So that’s I did. I would sit at the back of Gene’s house, using a system of knocks that we made to send simple messages back and forth.

‘How are you?’ ‘Okay.’

‘Do you need help?’ ‘No.’

Stuff like that. Gene’s parents didn’t usually hit him, but I was always ready to jump in (Or get Dad to help too) if Gene needed me to.

So of course, when I found out they were holding him captive at home again, I started coming by to the usual spot to check on him every night. I’d get there between 8:55 N.X. and 9:00 N.X—after his parents blacked out—ask the usual questions to make sure he was okay, then go. And without fail, Gene would be there to answer.

But two days ago, Gene stopped responding. Concerning, but maybe a fluke. Yesterday I came by here once an hour to check in, from morning to night.

Nothing at all. That’s not a fluke.

So here I was.

*THUNK THUNK THUNK*

“I SWEAR TO HIS MAJESTY IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR I’M GONNA BUST IT IN!”

Not a peep. Alright then, we’re doing this.

“OKAY! YOU ASKED FOR IT!”

I grabbed the rickety door handle, violently twisting it with all my might. I snarled when nothing happened, like I’d been expecting something else after doing the same thing for twenty minutes.

Whatever, there were other ways to do this.

I turned from the hut, giving my surrounding a quick scan.

It was a dreary sight. My family lived in the Low Fifth, but Gene lived in the Low Fifth, if you know what I mean. A bunch of ramshackle things that barely qualified as buildings, just like Gene’s house. Heck, I think some of them were even worse.

Piles of broken bottles, cigarette butts, rotting food, and any other kind of debris you could think of was strewn about the area, though the recent heavy blanket of snow we’d gotten did a good job of covering it up. A few burning trashcans stood around, their ring of smelly fire on of the few safe spots from Wintis’s biting chill.

A big, bright square of orange stood out to me across the street. Oho, that seemed promising.

I bounded across the road, snow crunching wetly underfoot. As I got closer I saw—

Oh! Gross! It was a…… cinder-block, I guess, kinda hard to tell when the whole thing was just coated in a layer of violent orange puke. Frozen, chunky puke. Guuuuh! Nope, no way I’m touchin’ that thing.

Thankfully, there was a non vomit chunk of cinder-block about a foot away. It wasn’t a whole block, but should still do the job nicely. I brushed the snow off of it and picked it up, grunting. Thing was heavier than it looked.

Walking (There was no ‘bounding’ while carrying this thing) back across the street, I stood in front of the door and took a deep breath.

This was happening.

I was really about to break their house. And I had no freaking clue about how Gene’s parents were going react! Skid could make you do some cuh-razy things! I heard about this one guy who got into a fight with a Skidhead, and had his face torn off! I would really rather not.

But it was either this, or leave Gene trapped in there with his crazy heckin’ parents. And uh, that really wasn’t an option.

I raised the chunk of cinder-block as high as I possibly could, tip-toes included.

“HAH!”

I brought the block down with all of my eight (Almost nine!) year old strength. The rusted door handle—held in place by a single bent screw and dry, flaking wood—never stood a chance. As my stone lock-pick struck the handle, the wood snapped and splintered, the screw snapping, the entire frame breaking out of the door with the screech of rending metal.

The doorknob hit the ground with a soft *clunk*, followed by a much louder *THUD* as I tossed the block to the side.

Alright. Done. Let’s grab Gene. I took another deep breath, then kicked the door open and swept in, ready to rumble.

“Ugh! Augh!”

I instantly gagged as I crossed the doorway, doubling over as a horrible smell sucker punched me straight in the face. Like a wad of freshly coughed up hairballs that was set on fire. And then the fire was put out with sewer water.

This was just a ‘bad smell’. No, this was a direct olfactory offensive. The stench slithered into my nose, crawling through my nasal passages, coating them in a thick, lingering sensation. Oh man, I may never get this smell out of my mind.

That was the unmistakable smell of Skid. It wasn’t the first time I’d smelled it over at Gene’s house, but it was stronger than any other time by a mile.

I stayed doubled over, forced into a deep coughing fit by the Skid smell. I pulled my shaggy wool coat and my thin cotton shirt up over my mouth and nose, using my clothes as a sort of face mask.

It wasn’t nearly enough. Nothing was ever enough to totally block the smell of Skid. But it helped me stop gagging and coughing long enough to stand and flick the light switch.

A tremor of disgust and loathing ran down my spine as I looked around the room. It was a dump. Like, literally a garbage dump. The room was small, only about eight feet across, and I’m completely serious when I say I couldn’t a single clear spot on the floor other than the space needed to swing the door. Not even fully at that, only about eighty percent of the swing arc was actually clear.

The walls were also nasty, covered in a mural of stains that told a story of the many, many wild nights that Gene’s parents had. Alcohol, vomit (Of course), some blood. At least I knew that blood wasn’t Gene’s. It was from an incident between Gene’s dad and the kitchen knife, apparently.

Honestly, I didn’t understand why Gene didn’t just run away from all of this? I mean, I “get” it. They are still his parents, and I know I’d never want to run away from Mom and Dad……but, if they treated me like his did? And I had to live in knee deep garbage all the time? No way man, I’d leave in a heartbeat.

And I’ve talked to Gene about it too. My family would take him in. And if his parents came after him, we’d protect him. But every time I talked to him about it—usually just after whatever the latest incident was—he’d always say no. And that was that. I mean, I couldn’t force to leave his parents.

But as I crept, waded, and stumbled through this unbelievable amount of garbage……I’m starting to think that maybe I should’ve tried to anyway.

The entrance room lead directly into the kitchen, or at least that’s what it was used as. There was; a single, beaten up ice-box which was just totally missing the seal. A table that looked like it was meant for children. And the stove, which was a single Lowest Grade Fire Quartz with a thick metal lunch tray on top of it.

I guess at least I was able to see the floor in a few spots, a clearly marked foot path leading through the garbage, splitting into two in the middle of the kitchen and going to two doors on the other side of the room. The one on the right was Gene’s. The other was his parents’.

I stepped along the path to Gene’s room cautiously, blood racing through my veins at a million miles an hour. Why hadn’t I seen anyone yet? I mean, I was grateful Gene’s parents hadn’t jumped me in a rage, buuut on the other hand, if someone broke into our house, I don’t think Mom, Dad, and I would just wait in our rooms for whoever broke in to find us.

Plus, there was just a really *bad* feeling in the air. Like when there’s a really big storm building up, and that static charge starts to fill the air, making all your hair tingle and stand up. That, mixed with someone dropping an ice cube down the back of your shirt. But on the inside. That same feeling I got when I would get home, and Mom and Dad would already be sitting at the table. Dad with his face stone cold, Mom with her head buried in her hands.

That kind of feeling. A full body warning that something really, really bad was about to happen.

A booming roar of thunder violently shook the entire house. I reeled back from the sudden explosion of noise, falling onto my butt like I’d been physically struck. I scrambled back up, a hand over my heart to steady myself.

Shoot! Come on Emmanuel, we don’t have time for this! Get it together, Gene needs you!

I steeled myself, gritting my teeth and pressing forward with a couple of quick, powerful strides. I grabbed the cold, rusted door handle, and—before I could have any more hesitations—threw it wide open.

I rushed in, calling to Gene.

“Gene, don’t worry man, I’m—what!?”

There was no one in here. Heck, no just no one, there was no-thing in here at all! No furniture. No garbage. And no Gene.

I just stood there slowly blinking for a couple of seconds. This didn’t make any sense.

I darted into the middle of the room. Was I missing something? Was there actually some sort of secret trapdoor or something I didn’t know about? I spun my head all around the room, checking every corner and every angle intensely. Nope, nothing. This room was barely more than a large closet, there was no way I’d miss anything.

But, so what then? Someone just swooped in and took Gene and all of his stuff? No! That made even less sense! Why would you ever try and ransom Gene? He’s not worth anything! Uh, that sounded really bad. I mean he is, as a person and stuff, but you don’t ransom people without any money! Everyone knows that. The only people that get kidnapped for ransom are from Rings Two and Three, that’s where all the real money is.

Uh, sorry, that’s not the point. Point is no one would kidnap Gene. So who would—

Duh. His parents. They had to have something to do with it. My confusion turned to anger as I thought about it.

Did they take him and run somewhere? Maybe they sold him to some slaver?! I’d seen the slavers before. Bands of thugs from the far, far south of Terralane.

The Vulcanic Vasts, where the rays of Novas beamed down with an almighty intensity, cooking the land as much as an oven would. According to Dad, they had a totally different set of laws than we had here in the Benevolent Plains, the area controlled directly by His Majesty and the Noble Families. Apparently slavery was common there, and slaves from different regions had their own selling points.

So, even though it was very much illegal in all other parts of Terralane, slavers would sometimes make the long journey out to other regions in order to pick up more ‘exotic’ wares.

Actually, I think that’d make a lot of sense. His sudden disappearance, cause the slaver did in fact just swoop in and take him away. The crazy strong smell of Skid? Gene’s parents took the money they got from selling him and went and bought a heck load of the stuff! It made perfect sense!

My vision immediately turned blood red with anger. How dare they!

I exploded out of Gene’s room, back out into the kitchen, and stood in front of the parents’ door. Grabbing the handle with both hands, I ripped the door open with all of the force I could muster. They hadn’t come out yet, so I wasn’t expecting them to now. And if they were waiting for me, lying just in wait beyond the door, so be it. Was that reckless? Irresponsible? Yeah, maybe. Right now, I didn’t really give a crap.

The door flew open, slamming into the wall with a mighty crash. I instinctively crouched low, tense, ready for anything, to throw down at the first sign of motion.

But there was none. At least, from what I could see. The room was dark, the hanging overhead light currently off. Dark as it was, it was still obvious that this room was far from empty. There was a table-esque shape, something squat and wide, maybe a chest or something, but most importantly--two adult sized lumps sat right in the middle of the room. Gene’s parents.

I waited an extra second to see if any of this crazy racket I’d been making would wake them up, but they didn’t move. My lips curled in scorn. I’d be willing to bet a solid gold coin that they were completely conked out on Skid. There was probably nothing I could do to wake them, even if I wanted to.

As I stared at their unmoving forms, the anger I felt turned into something more. Something deeper than anger, an emotion of violent hatred mixed with righteous fury.

It screamed at me. “Kill them! Kill them!”

I could. It’d be easy, too. With them passed out this hard, all I’d have to do is hold their necks tightly for a couple of minutes and that’d be that.

Would I even feel bad? Honestly, I don’t think I would. These were two bad people, through and through. And after all they’ve done to Gene over the years…I think they deserve it.

I stepped into the room, my foot landing with a splash. I hardly noticed it though, or the new, rotten stench that began to creep in alongside the smell of the Skid.

I was gonna do it. I wanted to do it. These bastards had messed around for too long, nothing but two huge pains in the butt for everyone who knew them.

Mom and Dads’ frequent lectures echoed in my head, trying to reason with me. How ‘revenge and justice are never the same thing’ and how ‘that’s what the guards were for’. Right, because the guards would be so interested in investigating a couple of dirty Skidheads for selling their kid to some slave ring. Doubtful.

A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the room through the dingy window, accompanied by another roar of thunder.

I took another step forward into the dark room. No, I’d do it myself. Then they’d never be a problem to anyone again. No one would even notice they were gone.

Images of Gene flashed through my head. How every time I would try to get him to leave his parents and move in with me, he’d get that weird, faraway look in his eyes. Then he’d look at me, real sad, and say “They’re still my family.”

I staggered back towards the door, the onslaught of hate and vengeance in me coming to a complete and sudden stop.

What the heck was I thinking!? I couldn’t murder Gene’s parents! I would never be able to face him again. “Gene! I finally saved you! Oh, what happened to your parents? Oh, I uh, killed them because I was mad that they sold you into slavery.” No. No way. What if they hadn’t even done that? I could be wrong about this entirely!

No matter the case was, I desperately needed more information before I could do anything.

Where to start though? I guess here in the bedroom would be the best spot, considering every other room was just full of garbage. I doubt digging through that would be a good use of my time. Plus, I just didn’t want to do that.

I palmed the wall a couple of times until I found the light switch, then flicked it on.

The room’s single light, a dirty, bulbish mana lamp in the center of the ceiling, turned on with a drone similar to an angry bee hive. It bathed the room in a dingy eggshell hue. Wow. This was even worse than the other rooms.

The walls of the room were absolutely trashed, covered in an even wider variety of stains than the entrance room (Again, a lot of vomit), but with a noticeable addition. Thick black streaks ran down all the sides of the room, a side effect of smoking Skid. The moisture-filled smoke produced by the Skid mixes and collects around the dirt on the walls. Over time it creates a sticky, tar like substance that clumps up and streaks down the walls like tears through heavy black mascara. Gross stuff.

The floor was unsurprisingly littered with all sorts of trash, with the thickest concentration over by the table that was pushed up against the left wall. Over on the right was a squat, wide chest. Well, chest was pushing it a bit. It was more of a crate, with all sorts of random stuff jutting out from under the ill fitting lid. If anything was going to give me a clue about where Gene was taken to, it’d be in there. I think.

I took a step towards the chest.

*Splash*

I stopped. Splash? There weren’t supposed to be splashes indoors. What the heck had I just stepped in?

Looking down at the floor, I saw that I was standing in a large puddle. It spread out from the center of the room. Out from where Gene’s parents were. While it was pretty difficult to tell in the dingy light, it seemed to be yellow. Like, really dark yellow.

I grimaced hard, my face screwing up in disgust. Did one of them really pee themselves? Was it both of them? Ugh! Man, that is so nasty. Freaking Skid just turned you into a wreck. Never catch me dead on that stuff.

I stared at them another second, judging them. Then I got confused. And very concerned.

Weren’t they supposed to be moving? Passed out or not, they still needed to breathe. But I couldn’t see any movement whatsoever from the two shapes.

Maybe it was just the light.

I stepped closer, cringing every time my shoes splashed down into the puddle on the floor. The puddle of pee. Ugh, so gross. Kinda wish I had just kept the lights off.

Stepping up to the center of the room, a creeping dread stole over me. They definitely weren’t breathing. Either of them.

Gene’s parents were dead.

The shock of them actually being dead was like getting punched straight in the gut. It knocked the air right out of me, threatening to drop my knees out from under me. The thought of having to walk home later in urine soaked pants, and the disgust I felt at that gave me the strength to stand, thankfully.

Gene’s parents, uuuuh, Shella and Roburt (I think those were their names), had the same build as their son. Long, whip thin limbs and skinny frames.

Shella, his mother, was a hard woman. Nothing e4ver seemed to be good enough for her, and her nastiness was built right into her face. She was all hard lines and ridges, no softness at all. A nose that protruded exactly like an eagle’s hooked beak. A vicious chin that was sharp enough to split wood, and curved like a wolf’s fang. (How that heck was that even possible?!) Her eyes were sunken, and sallow. They would have looked right at home on some kind of scarecrow.

His father Roburt wasn’t any better. Where his wife’s face was too hard, too rigid, his face was ……just too soft. So round. Like, piggishly round. He had a huge nose, with a steep tilt upward that gave you a front row view right up his nostrils. He had a patchy beard that ‘covered’ his multiple chins and plump cheeks. It was all incredibly off-putting compared to his thin body.

To be frank, I’d always thought that Gene’s parents were both super ugly. Not just cause of their looks—Though yeah, you could paint them green and have ‘em pass for goblins pretty easy—but because they always had a mean, angry expression plastered on their faces.

But that wasn’t there anymore. Both of them had an expression of incredible calm, like they were just taking a mid-day nap or something. Without that mean mug, they didn’t look that bad. They actually both looked like rather pleasant people.

A strange, deep sadness washed over me. Why couldn’t they have been like this all the time? Why couldn’t they have just been good parents?

Tears began to well in the corners of my eyes. I might have hated them, but that didn’t matter, they weren’t my parents. They were Gene’s, and he’d still loved them, even as bad as they were. I saw it in his eyes every time I talked to him about leaving. That small light of hope that the three of them could be a happy family someday. And you know what, *maybe* it could have! Crazy things happen all the time.

But now Gene was missing and his parents were dead. And Gene’s dream of a happy family could never possibly happen.

Tears freely streamed down my face, dripping and splashing into the puddle below. For a while I just stood there crying, lamenting the loss of life, the loss of the potential for happiness.

Every tear that fell served as a new building block for my resolve. I was going to find Gene. No matter what. No matter how long it took. No matter how dangerous it would be. I would find him, rescue him, and see him safe. And then……I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.

A long eventually later, I ran out of tears. Then, wiping my face with my shirt--(Cause it wasn’t really useful as a mask anymore. I think my nose sensors were totally fried now.)—I stood over Roburt and Shella and did something I never did

I prayed. Prayed to His Majesty. Prayed to the land of Foronea Herself; that once their souls were properly cleansed, or punished, or whatever-that the two would be reborn into a better life.

“I hope your next lives are better than this one. May you find the peace you could not here.”

It just seemed right.

Now it was time to search that darn crate and leave. Saying I was ‘tired’ would be a huge understatement. I was drained, drier than a desert in the middle of Sumtor. I just wanted to go home. Mom and Dad would have a better idea what to do anyway.

It took more effort than I expected, but I was able to pop the top off the crate. And, after what felt like roughly ten hours of carefully sorting through all the junk in it…

Nothing. Not a single interesting looking thing in the entire freaking crate. Eighty percent of it was trash—Roburt and Shella were probably hoping to sell it to some of the other sorry sods around here. The twenty percent of it was totally random crap. A big rock. An unopened jar of ‘Baconed Beans’, whatever those were. An opened jar of ‘Baconed Beans’, the rancid fumes of which I think burned off my eyebrows.

Nothing of use at all.

So, that was great. Very cool.

I trudged my way back to the entrance room, feeling temporarily derailed, but not defeated. I would find Gene. I don’t know how, but I would.

The storm outside had begun in earnest, the wind thrashing the door back and forth like the target of a baby’s temper tantrum. I walked across the room, shielding my face from the violent wind with my arm. When I was a few steps from the door it slammed shut again. And that’s when I noticed something sticking in its back.

It was a thick piece of cream white parchment, stabbed into the door by a six inch long knife. It was simple, but well made, with a shiny steel blade and black leather handle wrap. If that wasn’t important I don’t know what was.

I grabbed the knife handle with one hand, the parchment with the other, and gave it a hard tug.

“Waah! Ugh!”

It popped out with surprisingly little resistance. I stumbled backward, then yelled as some kind of bottle rolled under my foot and I fell, sprawling out in the garbage.

Ow, garbage does not make a good landing zone. Who knew?

I sat up with a groan, taking a closer look at the parchment and knife. For the most part, it was completely normal, except for a little marking on the blade near the hilt. It kind of looked like deer horns. Uh, antlers. Oh, a rack! Yeah, it looked just like a big rack of antlers. Some kind of special engraving? I don’t know what it means though. Would have to ask Dad when—

A guttural roar of thunder shook the house and snapped my attention away from any thought of big deer racks and back to the most pressing issue. I had to get the heck home! This storm looked like it was going to be a real whopper when it finally opened up the floodgates and I did not want to get caught up in that.

The parchment I carefully rolled up and slipped into my pants pocket. The knife I, uh……hmm.

How was I going to carry this? I’m definitely not putting a bare knife in my pocket or tucking it in my shoe or anything. Hmmmmmm, well, whatever. I’ll just carry it by hand and be really careful not to fall. That taken care of, I hunched my shoulders, hunkering down as much as I could, and barreled out the door as fast as I could, hoping to making it home before the sky started falling.

Unfortunately for me, the stretch between our houses was not a short one. Even on the best days, it took me a solid thirty minutes to get to Gene’s house, and forty to get back because of the steep hills. And today was the exact opposite of ‘the best of days.’

When I got home an hour and twenty five minutes later, I was soaked to the bone, and felt like one big human shaped ice cube. The front door opened before I even reached it, Mom and Dad grabbing me and yanking me inside.

Before I could even say anything, Dad ran off to grab a towel, and Mom started trying to undress me to get me into a fresh set of clothes, which she already had set out. She unbuttoned my coat and started to pull it off hurriedly, fussing, “Come on Emmanuel, help me out here. We need to get you changed before—What is that?”

Mom’s eyes were wide, fixed on the knife in my hand. She reached for it but I pulled away.

“G-G-G-G-G,” was all I managed to stammer out, my teeth chattering too badly to talk. Dad ran into the room with a big towel, wrapping it around my shoulders.

Then he noticed the knife too. “Emmanuel, is that a knife!?”

I nodded and handed it to him. He took it, and I pointed at the deer rack on the blade. He pushed his dark framed glasses up and squinted at it, wracking his brain.

While he did that I cocooned myself in the towel as tightly as I could, leaving only my face poking out. Felt good.

It took Dad all of thirty seconds to shuffle through everything he knew and recognize it. His dark chocolate colored eyes grew wide in shock. “This is the Pallador family crest! How did you get this? They’re a major family, they wouldn’t be caught dead within two hundred miles of the Fifth Ring. And if you did see them, you were closer than you should ever be!” The last few words were almost a yell. It sounded like Dad was scared of them. That’s always a really bad sign.

It was a little while longer until my teeth stopped chattering enough to let me talk, then I filled them in on what I’d seen at Gene’s house. When I got to the part about Gene’s parents being dead, Mom and Dad both gasped. Mom’s hands flew to her mouth and Dad just shook his head, saying, “Dear Godking, we should have gone with you. I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

I waved it off and moved on. Honestly did not have the time or energy for that. “It’s fine. So anyway on my way out, I found that knife stabbed through a piece of paper on the back of the front door. I grabbed both of……them…” My face darkened as I realized the obvious problem. There was no way that paper was going to be okay. Not with the freaking literal lake of water I had dumped on me during the run back home. I sighed and reached into my soaking wet pants pocket, fully ready to pull out completely ruined scraps of paper mush.

Instead, I felt the slightly rough texture of a perfectly intact sheet of parchment. My eyebrows shot up my forehead in shock as I pulled it out, the sheet crinkling softly.

“Whoa. How the…”

Dad reached out and motioned for me to hand it to him. “May I see it?”

I obliged, nodding my head and handing it to him. With my hands free, I wiggled out of my soaking wet clothes, throwing them out of the towel cocoon so I could start actually drying off. “Is that like, magic paper? Why isn’t it soggy?”

Dad furrowed his brow. “Well, kind of. Its not exactly magical, but if I’m right, its a very special type of parchment called ‘nuvellum’. When I was a bookkeeper I worked with it twice. Its very expensive. Its also waterproof, tear-resistant, and whatever is written on it will never come off. Whoever put it there really wanted to make sure it stayed there until someone found it.”

I shook my head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone go through all of this trouble over Gene? What’s it say?”

Dad cleared his throat with a cough and began to read.

What I heard would haunt me for the rest of my life.

————————

To The Fifth Ring Street Urchin Who Pushed My Nephew and His Companion Off Of A Roof,

Greetings, My name is Glacidus Tianas Pallador. You may better know me by my title; Duke Pallador, Lord of The Risen Heights and Overseer of Terra Prospa.

This letter is in regards to an incident that took place on the forty-seventh day of Falles in the nineteen-hundredth and eighty third year of our glorious Godking’s seventh era, that involved yourself, another child who acted as your accomplice, my nephew Harist, and his companion Loke.

In this incident, as I am sure you already know, my nephew and his friend were exploring the Fifth Ring when they were approached by your accomplice. Your accomplice told them that he needed help, and being the gentlemen that they are, my nephew and his friend readily followed your accomplice down into the Low Fifth.

Once deep into the lawless alleys and filthy backstreets of the Low Fifth, where no one would interfere, you led an assault on the two, with a dozen other urchins throwing hammers and such from the rooftops. My nephew attempted to talk you down, but you refused. Then, when the two of them climb the building to apprehend you and turn you in to the guards, you caused the collapse of the roof.

With his strong Pallador blood, Harist was relatively unharmed. A few minor scrapes, but nothing more serious than that thankfully. However, Loke was not so fortunate suffering three broken ribs, a broken left arm, and several rather serious lacerations.

As you can imagine, Harist was quite furious. He demanded that we hunt you down and bring you in that very instant, but, if I may be frank, I never held much fondness for Loke, and the resources required to track you down would have been a waste. So I convinced Harist to wait and see how Loke recovered first, hoping that the time would be enough to cool his head.

Unfortunately, Loke has long since healed, and Harist’s rage has cooled not one iota. He continues to press me about the issue and I am tired of it. I am still unwilling to spend resources on finding wherever you live, but Harist knew exactly where to find your accomplice, and he accepted that as the next best thing.

Honestly, this might be a blessing for the poor boy. Those creatures that he called ‘parents’ handed him over without a fight for a single silver piece. Truly disgusting. At least this way he’ll only suffer for a little while, instead of his whole life.

I’m truly sorry about this whole grisly business, and do wish we could have avoided it if at all possible. But I am sorry to say, you brought this on yourself. If you had just left well enough alone and known your place, your friend would still be alive, at home, and none of this would have ever happened. I hope you have learned your lesson.

With the highest regard

Duke Glacidus Tianas Pallador, Lord of The Risen Heights and Overseer of Terra Prospa