Deep beneath the streets of Tideswallow, the Roe extends further and further into the resilient bulk of Veltria’s bedrock. Carved directly from the stone around it, numerous buildings stand tall, reaching from the cavern floor to ceiling, acting as combined residence and structural support for the district as a whole. But not everyone can afford to live in such “luxury.”

Passing beyond the maze of side streets and back alleys, one can find their way into a complex mess of tents, hovels, and rough-hewn structures. The Ash is far and away the last place an outsider wants to find themselves. Beneath its overlapping canopy of stretched canvases hanging crisscrossed between the cavern ceiling and the buildings below, a wide assortment of impoverished souls live out their days in squalor here. The Ash is an unforgiving environment, rife with crime and debauchery, but it is also a crucible from which some of the city’s toughest, strongest warriors get their start. Some of Tideswallow’s greatest fighters, bravest adventurers, and even (in the case of Lord Vernum Carwright, the City Council’s current Lord of Arms) the most beloved political leaders all grew up scrapping, stealing, and surviving in gritty, dusty-laden streets of the Ash.



This message was last edited by the GM at 03:55, Sun 13 Sept 2020.

Morning was a relative thing in the Ash. The sun did not reach deep into it for most of the day and cast it in perpetual shadow. But such things were some of the least concerns for those who lived there. Certainly not for Vela, the half-orc woman who woke early for her daily routine. She got up from her straw mattress and cast aside her raggedy blanket, scratching away the bug bites as she yawned and then got a good stretch. She had dreamed of the tournament again, some bad dream about losing. Rubbish. The dreams only played on her fears. She wasn't going to lose. Only quitters thought of losing. She got into her clean clothes (the set of the pair she owned that she hadn't worn the day before) and she made her oatmeal porridge in her pot. Sitting down on the ground she had her breakfast, but her mind was on the same thing it had been for months. The spring festival tournament. On the other side of the cottage her mother stirred in her bed as well, but Vela would be gone before she got up.

As she pulled the door closed behind her Vela looked in all directions. This time of day she didn't expect anything, and most of the smart ones would stay away from her, but you always had to watch your back in the alleys of the Ash. Always. She had seen too many bodies to know differently. But there was no one about so Vela began her routine. She began jogging towards the docks on the other side of the city. The fishermen would sail out now, at dawn. By the time she reached it she could see the sails on the horizon and she was getting up a nice sweat from the climb. She went past the docks to the shoreline. There she found her training spot, if one could call it that. Mostly it was a very battered tree with a ragged old sail wrapped around it. Vela sat down on a rock for a breather, and got out her leather strips. She began wrapping them around her knuckles, who all were bruised and crusted. They never got a break these days. She had to be at her best. It was going to hurt. It always did. But this pain would give her a chance at that pot. She couldn't imagine anyone better off going through all this suffering. This year was going to be her year. Get her and her mom out of the Roe. Get some decent grub every day. Clothes without holes.

She got up and stepped up to the tree. The old sail was dirty and torn, but it would cushion the blows just enough. Vela gave it a few experimental taps, and then got to it, hitting it over and over again, raining blows, shuffling left and right, dodging imaginary blows while keeping up the furious attack. She kept at it and at it until she almost collapsed, then gave herself only a brief moment of rest before she went at it again. She blanked out her mind and just kept going. And only when blood was seeping from under the leather wraps she finally relented. She collapsed and sat, panting, looking out over the sea, gasping for breath. She felt good, even as her hands hurt like a horse had stepped on them. They were shaking, but Vela wrapped the leather off. Her knuckles were skinned, but what else was new? She sat a short while longer, then got up and took off her boots. She waded into the water for a short bath to get the sweat from her clothes and face, and then dried a bit. By then the city would be up and about. She put her boots back on. Time to go looking for work. she would begin back at the docks, sometimes she could earn a bit hauling cargo. There was still some trade, but nothing like a few years ago. If that didn't work she would hit the town square. Folk with odd jobs would collect able workers there. And if that didn't turn up anything, well, then it was the Sunless. She didn't want to scrap in the arena as she normally did to earn her keep. She had to keep fit, not get beaten up. But working for the Sunless always left a bitter taste. But hey, she got to eat..

In reply to Vela (msg # 2):

Passive Perception: 12

As you turn to leave your well-worn training spot, you take note of a figure watching from a good distance away. A man in a long duster and the wide-brimmed hat you’ve come to associate with travelers from the midlands; regions much further north than Tideswallow. Such travelers aren’t exactly an oddity in this city; especially during cattle season, when they would drive the herds to the coast for the various harvest festivals. Tidesswallow’s own HarFest attracted a fair number of them each year. But this one seemed a little early. And devoid of cattle.

He stands there, leaning against the side of one of the dock shacks. You can’t say how long he’s been looking your way, but the sense of being watched has been present for a while now. Anyone else would have suspected he was gazing out upon the harbor or the spires of the Fiendfall Reef jutting from the end of it, but you know better. The years have taught you to recognize a glance aimed at you. To know when someone is sizing you up. A smaller figure is seated cross legged on the ground beside him, but they’re both too far away for you to get a good look at from your peripherals. Setting your sights on them would clear things up a bit, but would also likely give away that you’ve spotted them. Then again, it might be more worth while to just ignore them completely. Glances from strangers was nothing new for you, no matter how much time passed. There’d always be those who wanted someone to gawk at or start trouble with.

The day was still young, there was still much to do.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:29, Sun 13 Sept 2020.

If she had a copper for every cunt who stared at her she wouldn't need the harvest festival pot. The city was filled with the arses who would rather see every half-orc baby drowned in the sea then have them walk out of the Ash. Tough shit on them, she was here and she was going to beat up whatever pink-skinned twat they would send against her. But Vela hardly didn't pay the stares much heed. She got them all day long for her whole life. Some half-orcs tried to blend in with the pinkies, play nice with them, show they weren't the savage brutes they were made out to be. but vela never bothered. That wasn't a contest her kind could ever win. There would always be the stigma. so better to be who you were, and break the nose of whoever made a fuss about it.

Whatever. Vela headed back towards the docks to see if there was work.

--> To the Waterfront

-moved to the Waterfront-
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:02, Sun 13 Sept 2020.