The sun and the sea meet on the docklands of Alva, city of commerce, travesty, fun and violence. Like any other stronghold of the kingdom of Eked, every joy and every sin can be found in the bitter sanctuary of it’s walls. Enticing young farm hands and maids from the country to a better life, only to cut them in their prime and break their climb up the social ladder. Through the artistic district, little more than a slum, the docklands, the bustling market quarter and down through the residential slums and avenues, one can hear the laughter and arguments of countless thousands, going about their business and lives in the only way they know - eternal gusto and constant energy.
A young man, older than the youths crowded around him, but not as old, wise or learned as the adults walking by twirls a dagger in his right hand, and hands out scrolls of parchment with the other, a dozen of which are tucked under his belt, into his waistcoat and down the side of his boots. He looked like an accountant who lived and breathed his work, or a man who’d partaken in one too many parties - a little unhinged. “C’mon, c’mon! Getcha tickets, tickets to the play now, here, free, come see the new play!”
The grubby paws of the youths might not have understood the finer points of the theatrical world, but the bigger audience the greater the renown, respect and reception the man’s troupe would received, if all went to plan. It didn’t take long for the crowd to disperse, leaving the ticket seller with three scrolls and ruffled hair. “Any one else? New play, see it first on the Dockside Quay!” His accent carried clearly along the avenue, a small stretch of stalled cobbles which connected the great market square and the first of many smaller streets which lead into the heart of the upper class suburb of Mandrel. All across the city similar men were banding their wares, nearly two hundred parchments were being handed out in all, enough to fill the Dockside Quay to the very brim, eager, grubby, uneducated and unlearned masses and the educated and literate few, it didn’t matter who came, as long as they did.
“Here here,” swirling on his heel the ticket seller meets the gaze of a tall, bearded man brandishing a copper coin, a very lavish azure jacket, and a large wig of grey curls and purple ribbons, “I’ll take one of those young man, for the price of love is but a garter away!” He wasn’t entirely sure what the man meant, but he took his money anyway, split another ticket and nodded politely as he slipped away. That was…disturbing, he thought to himself.
The red bricks and mortar of the nearby wash house served as a momentary rest for the young man, who leans against it with style and panache. The sort that oozed confidence, despite him not having any. With only three left and several hours before he had to return to the Dockside to perform his part in the troupe’s new fandango, he thought about what he could do to pass the time. Alva was a tremendously expansive city, one of the biggest on the Eastern Peninsula, sprung up centuries ago from the ashes of a war. The then king had chosen here, of all the open spaces left uninhabited, due to the rich soil and depth of the estuary. As industry had churned away the seabed, and the land had been drained, Alva appeared and continues to grow inland, up, and down. There was always something to do, you just had to know what it is you wanted, and more importantly, where to look if your tastes were a little more sordid than the general populous.
Kicking away from the wall he slipped a ticket into the back band of a parasol beauty, and the others into the wicker basket of a busy family mother, now free of his duties, he pushed through the stream of people rushing left and right along the apex of the street and slipped into the alleyway on the opposite side. Almost instantly the noise died down and the light began to fade, the walls of the buildings either side grew taller and taller, until the only light came from above in a thin sliver of the day. The noise faded further still, and the thin white line above disappeared, indicating that the young man had now gone either underground, or into the bowels of an ancient building long forgotten. He slowed down as he turned a corner and the corridor turned into a damp brick chamber, barely fifty feet wide and not much taller than he was.
Inside there was a central fire pit, which was dimly ablaze and churning out heat by the wave, and roughly six murky shadows on the outer edge of the fire’s light. There was nothing else in the room, no torches, no tables, no water…just a dark hovel, and the faint sound of a man’s breath. The ticket seller stepped into the room and let the grey light illuminate his figure, a subtle yet unobtrusive way of announcing his arrival. “Jack? I know you’re in here lad, you know why I’m here…dontcha?”
The six figures moved, but not in any discernable way, or with any recognisable shape. They simply shifted, hinting at movement, like a flickering ghoul in the night, and the sudden tenseness in the air sent a tingle down the man’s spine. “Come on now…there’s no need for that, I only came for what’s mine, right?” No reply came, a moment passed, and then the fire pit came to life with a small pop of air.
The six figures slowly merged into one huddled shape on the opposite side of the regenerated fire. The man was almost certain he heard the sound of metal scraping, and bone breaking as the shape turned into one that he finally recognised. “It is good….to see…you…Duffy…” The figure spoke, a whispery and haunted voice cut the air, as if tongue were knife and intent was diamond. “Why…are…you…here…?”
Memories of their last encounter swarmed his mind, he’d been very reckless then, he didn’t intend to be so hasty this time, so much was at stake on this encounter. “I have come to offer you a gift, the last ticket to the troupe’s new play - the Tantamount King,” he whipped the last scroll, one he’d been saving from view, and handed it out. There was no way the figure could reach, but some people did not need arms length to take what they desired. With a hiss the scroll flicked through the air, as if the shadows had snatched it from the man’s hand. The shadow spoke, the sensory deprivation of hearing such an unearthly voice began to make Duffy nauseas, as if he’d heard this before, or a moment ago.
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