6 Spring 515
Exhausted, sore, cold, thirsty, filthy, ravenous, disheartened and angry, Mitt stomped home in the bone chilling downpour and the sky was as stormy grey as his eyes. It was eight in the morning, and he was supposed to have have been working at the Foundry a bell ago. This would be the second time in as many weeks which of course would get him in more trouble. Fine. Whatever.
As the fifteen year old stood in the main room, Stalker's words smacked him in the face again.
His mother had left him some coffee and half a loaf of bread, despite him being out all night and not even showing up in the morning until now. Vastly hungry, he tore into the bread with large bites, not even bothering to chew it and sucked down the coffee as fast as he could. In under a chime he was left with a few crumbs and an empty cup that he just stared down at. He was still starving. Whatever.
He strode angrily off to work, his overly tight boots splashing and soaking his feet even more with each wet step. The tall young man's mind went back to just a bell ago. It had been incredibly satisfying to open the door, throw the Watcher clothes at Rat's face and slam the door behind him. At least he had that, he smiled tiredly.
For the first time in two years, the fifteen year old walked brazenly to the front of the Foundry..and saw only one Watcher across the street! What the fuck? He'd indentured every single waking minute to Rat to have two overpaid guards and now they were gone! Three large men stood in the alley way next to the building, waiting to catch Mitt alone. But he was completely clueless to it.
Three and a half bells late, he stomped into the Foundry and his father scolded,
"You're late."
"Yea, no shit." Mitt retorted sharply.
A hand as solid as iron and large as an anvil cuffed him so hard upside his head that he stumbled forward nearly face planting into the ground.
"Don't you EVER talk to me like that again. I brought you into this world boy and I'll easily take you out of it." Tirlmon said savagely.
Mitt glared with icy blue eyes,
"Fine. Whatever."
Tirlmon grabbed his son by the back of his dirty soaked shirt and shoved Mitt six feet out the back door.
"Go home and get some sleep. That's enough shit outta you today. And no supper for a lazy, bad mouthing punk like you." From his full six foot two, two hundred and thirty pounds, the blacksmith stared down in disapproval at his son.
"If you ever speak to me like that again, I will beat the life outta you. Get out."
The dazed teen fell face first on the wet filthy stone cobbles and just laid there for a chime.
"Fine. Whatever." he murmured in a haze, his head throbbing.
Mitt slowly pushed himself upwards and regained his feet to finally stand upright. Turning in the wrong and opposite direction of home, he was abruptly pulled into the alley way by six large hands. From the second floor window, Seamus watched with a satisfied smirk. He had waited a very long two years so this revenge was extra sweet.
Thunder and lighting covered the sounds in the alley way for the next hour and finally settled down again back to the steady icy pouring rain. The three large men caught the bag of coins thrown down from the window above and Seamus closed the window with a final slam. The three large guys walked off from the alley and headed to the Drunken Fish for a long overdue drink.
Mitt lay on his side, and just hurt. It was dark and cold out and he was having a hard time just holding onto a single thought. He sat up groggy, trying to blink the rain out of his one good eye, as the other was swollen shut. It took him a few chimes to untie the laces, but he took off his boots with relief and threw them across the street. Too small anyway.
Wincing and hissing softly he rose to one knee gingerly and lurched to his feet. With a painful inhale, he tested his weight on his left knee and decided to just walk on it anyway. It wasn't like there was anything he could do about it. The weight of the one hundred and fifty in gold still tied to the inside of his pants reassured him. Mitt weaved from side to side until he stumbled into the side of a building. Good building to hold him up. Something was sharp when he breathed. Hm. Whatever.
The teen walked along with bare feet, the freezing rain, washing off most of the blood and he carried on to something that might look familiar. Where was he? What time was it? He walked into a solid wall of person and tried to open his eye better as he looked down. Seamus!
"Small accident huh kid? That's a shame innit? Ya know, I heard a rumor your old man is gonna meet a much worse fate tomorrow..."
"But you.." Mitt grunted, trying to get his brain in gear but his head felt strangely tight and not quite connected to his body. Cold clumsy fingers worked at the knot and he untied the money pouch to shove it at Seamus.
"Don't." was all he could manage to wrap his mouth around. It ached sorely, his lip was split and the swelling made it hard to talk.
"It's a small start." he said, shoving the money in an inside pocket of his coat. "Starting tomorrow you're on half wages. Thirty seven five and then there's no more accidents." The old smith walked away whistling cheerfully, heading to the Drunken Fish.
Fine. Whatever.
WC 992
Exhausted, sore, cold, thirsty, filthy, ravenous, disheartened and angry, Mitt stomped home in the bone chilling downpour and the sky was as stormy grey as his eyes. It was eight in the morning, and he was supposed to have have been working at the Foundry a bell ago. This would be the second time in as many weeks which of course would get him in more trouble. Fine. Whatever.
As the fifteen year old stood in the main room, Stalker's words smacked him in the face again.
His mother had left him some coffee and half a loaf of bread, despite him being out all night and not even showing up in the morning until now. Vastly hungry, he tore into the bread with large bites, not even bothering to chew it and sucked down the coffee as fast as he could. In under a chime he was left with a few crumbs and an empty cup that he just stared down at. He was still starving. Whatever.
He strode angrily off to work, his overly tight boots splashing and soaking his feet even more with each wet step. The tall young man's mind went back to just a bell ago. It had been incredibly satisfying to open the door, throw the Watcher clothes at Rat's face and slam the door behind him. At least he had that, he smiled tiredly.
For the first time in two years, the fifteen year old walked brazenly to the front of the Foundry..and saw only one Watcher across the street! What the fuck? He'd indentured every single waking minute to Rat to have two overpaid guards and now they were gone! Three large men stood in the alley way next to the building, waiting to catch Mitt alone. But he was completely clueless to it.
Three and a half bells late, he stomped into the Foundry and his father scolded,
"You're late."
"Yea, no shit." Mitt retorted sharply.
A hand as solid as iron and large as an anvil cuffed him so hard upside his head that he stumbled forward nearly face planting into the ground.
"Don't you EVER talk to me like that again. I brought you into this world boy and I'll easily take you out of it." Tirlmon said savagely.
Mitt glared with icy blue eyes,
"Fine. Whatever."
Tirlmon grabbed his son by the back of his dirty soaked shirt and shoved Mitt six feet out the back door.
"Go home and get some sleep. That's enough shit outta you today. And no supper for a lazy, bad mouthing punk like you." From his full six foot two, two hundred and thirty pounds, the blacksmith stared down in disapproval at his son.
"If you ever speak to me like that again, I will beat the life outta you. Get out."
The dazed teen fell face first on the wet filthy stone cobbles and just laid there for a chime.
"Fine. Whatever." he murmured in a haze, his head throbbing.
Mitt slowly pushed himself upwards and regained his feet to finally stand upright. Turning in the wrong and opposite direction of home, he was abruptly pulled into the alley way by six large hands. From the second floor window, Seamus watched with a satisfied smirk. He had waited a very long two years so this revenge was extra sweet.
Thunder and lighting covered the sounds in the alley way for the next hour and finally settled down again back to the steady icy pouring rain. The three large men caught the bag of coins thrown down from the window above and Seamus closed the window with a final slam. The three large guys walked off from the alley and headed to the Drunken Fish for a long overdue drink.
Mitt lay on his side, and just hurt. It was dark and cold out and he was having a hard time just holding onto a single thought. He sat up groggy, trying to blink the rain out of his one good eye, as the other was swollen shut. It took him a few chimes to untie the laces, but he took off his boots with relief and threw them across the street. Too small anyway.
Wincing and hissing softly he rose to one knee gingerly and lurched to his feet. With a painful inhale, he tested his weight on his left knee and decided to just walk on it anyway. It wasn't like there was anything he could do about it. The weight of the one hundred and fifty in gold still tied to the inside of his pants reassured him. Mitt weaved from side to side until he stumbled into the side of a building. Good building to hold him up. Something was sharp when he breathed. Hm. Whatever.
The teen walked along with bare feet, the freezing rain, washing off most of the blood and he carried on to something that might look familiar. Where was he? What time was it? He walked into a solid wall of person and tried to open his eye better as he looked down. Seamus!
"Small accident huh kid? That's a shame innit? Ya know, I heard a rumor your old man is gonna meet a much worse fate tomorrow..."
"But you.." Mitt grunted, trying to get his brain in gear but his head felt strangely tight and not quite connected to his body. Cold clumsy fingers worked at the knot and he untied the money pouch to shove it at Seamus.
"Don't." was all he could manage to wrap his mouth around. It ached sorely, his lip was split and the swelling made it hard to talk.
"It's a small start." he said, shoving the money in an inside pocket of his coat. "Starting tomorrow you're on half wages. Thirty seven five and then there's no more accidents." The old smith walked away whistling cheerfully, heading to the Drunken Fish.
Fine. Whatever.
WC 992