Uh, I dunno, Gavaroche styled RP
Just start posting, no char sheet needed, can drop out or enter at any time, etc.

by the way, anyone allowed, no matter their ability.
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In the end, there was nothing. All was waste, all was nothing but a pile of ashes. Gaia crumbled into
dust. Yet, pillars stood, tall above the recesses of the deep pits. Upon these pillars, people rested,
put to rest by God himself. They slept, for there was no other option. The Earth was ruined, the world
a dry, desolate pit of despair. The pangs of the people, silent. No one heard, because no one was there
to hear. Cast out by immense forces of death, all they could do was cry, but, they could not understand;
why.

In the beginning, there was nothing. All was waste. All was as it was in the end. But through miraculous
circumstances, nothing became something. From the ashes, life rose. The Earth built itself upon nothing,
restoring anew. Glorious chants arose from the basins as water flowed into the dead Earth. With the water
came the spring. And with the spring, came life.

The original people, those first created by God, called themselves the Potak. They were the first to
live in the promised land, Urbel. Urbel was situated in the exact center of the world, and was an
unimaginable paradise fed by tributaries stretching as far as the horizon. The grasses green and the
crops plentiful.

However, the Potak were arrogant in their good health and fortune. None died, none aged, and for
years the superiority complex of the people grew and mutated. In the 50th year, a terrible disaster
struck a vast amount of the Potak, and wiped out one-third of their population.
For the first time, they felt pain, agony, and death.
Shocked by this occurrence, the people split into two factions. One cursed God for allowing such a
calamity to fall upon them, the other defended God in his actions and forgave him.

A war ensued between the factions, and God was distraught at this resolution, watching his beloved
children fight one another. The most horrifying part of this war was the inability for the Potak to
kill one another completely with their own hands. No matter how badly they mauled one another, they
would not die. They could not kill one another, but the wounds remained, scarring the people dreadfully.

God could not take this pain, and separated the groups. The threw the faction against him out of Urbel,
cutting off connection between the two groups.
They tried to return to Urbel, but it disappeared, and the other group was nowhere to be found. They were
lost, shunned from Urbel and exiled to a desolate world, alone.
Urbel, in truth, was cloaked by God to protect the faithful, and even though he loved all his children,
he could not deal with those who betrayed him, for they cared no longer for him.
In Urbel, the people grew and changed, as well as those outside of Urbel.
Those who were shunned lost their immortality and all the gifts given to them by God. They lost wisdom,
and thus "devolved" into a barbaric state, and they called their people, Telluhs, and they were the root
oh all human life from there on.

For tens of thousands of years, Telluhs slowly "evolved," regaining their wisdom, but never being able
to remember their once beloved God nor Urbel. They were alone. They had forgotten God, and God had
forgotten them.

Time passed, and Tellus evolved. They became stronger and wiser. Through the discovery of the concept of
"time," they officially began the calender and even developed a writing system.

Over the next millennia, Telluhs split up, expanding across the vast landmass visible towards the horizon.
Each group evolved according to the limits of the land. However, their growing schism due to differences
caused many an issue between groups, and one by one, a genocidal bloodbath followed, all perpetrated by
the descendants of Telluhs that evolved the least, Huum. In the end, Huum controlled the land after
killing every other derivative of Telluhs in this purge.

100 years later, in the 12th century of the world, The scholars and scientists had performed an
impressive feat. In the hundreds of years they spent, locked in their hideaways, they had stumbled upon
the one force that could change the world forever. They had given birth to a mystical power, one that
only the God and the Potaks of the olden days knew of; Magic.

This magic fueled the lives of the people. It became commonplace in both the household and on the field
of battle. This new found power built and broke nations. It was truly a blessing.
However, the truth to this matter was that magic had always existed in the world. God had bestowed them
with it as a final parting gift, it was just that the Telluhs were too underdeveloped to understand the
complex nature of this magic.
Even though, Huum continued to use magic to simplify their lives. They had grown accustomed to it and
they soon became so dependent on it that they could not live without it. Magic had become their savior,
they were entangled in its lustrous lure.

Then, one day in the early 17th century, magic disappeared.
No one understood why, the scholars and scientists had no clue. The people were thrown into a frenzy. The
world was ending to them., it was all a lost cause once the magic vanished.
Once again, they did not know that God controlled it. He had enough with Huum, and destroyed the very
thread that held their pathetic society together.
He became angry with their impudent war dances and their tribunal massacres. This was God's cry of war.
Yet, the people of the world did not know, for they could not hear his tortured cries.

And so fate continues on turning.

____________

It is the 18th century of this world, the year 1733 to be exact.
Magic is gone. Swordplay is quickly becoming obsolete, due to the ever growing choice to carry a
projectile weapon, a gun. Chivalry died years ago, the sword, and all other bladed disciplines are
to follow. Yet, individuals cling to the old ways, practicing futile methods of war as the majority
traverses on towards the future. And then there are those who still believe in magic, that it never left.
These fools do not heed the future, they do not believe that "all things must pass," and therefore they
are destined to die by the gun, the future.

Perhaps they, they who cling so desperately to their obsolete past, will be the ones who initiate a new
era. However, this is a minor issue, for a much greater problem looms over the weary "Children of God."

____________
Rediscovered by their original creator, he watched their actions carefully. He took note of the strife in
their world, and judged them an unfit civilization. He cast his arm over their metropolis and unleashed
great catastrophe. The people suffered, but could not find a power to blame. Instead, they wallowed in
fear, unsure of the disasters ahead.

Those of Urbel watched the decimation from above, with little attachment to the Huum below. The Huum,
to these people, emitted little pathos. They were but a far off group of people. In teachings, they
learned of the mistakes of the ancestors of the Huum. They were seen as no more than savages. There was
no teaching of the Telluhs, no teaching that the exiled desired God's grace. Time warped their view of
who the Huum were.

Yet, despite the teachings, there are few who view the Huum as a society that can be saved. They
petitioned to God, hoping to save the savages from themselves. In accordance to their wishes, God
accepted, but chose one to fall from the heavens. The messenger was to discover if there was any worth
in this Gaia. If it lacked positive qualities, God would smite the surface, and begin the world anew.

The messenger took it upon herself to remain optimistic for the future. If the messenger view anything
with a hint of doubt, the result would be inaccurate.

On the final day, the messenger relinquished her privileges in Urbel. They said a prayer, and she fell
from the heavens.
____________

The messenger arose from a deep slumber. Another night in a back alleyway of the city. She did not exactly know the name of where she was resting, but passersby referenced it as a "Black Market" district. The fact that it was a market was increasingly obvious, as there were stalls hidden by walls and nooks with fascinating goods, being hawked by shady men. While she was not used to dangerous individuals, her mandatory veil most likely kept her from the palms of men in the business of slave trade, one of the liveliest markets in this district, especially when it came to females.

Of course, labeling every Huum in the district "shady" was a bit rash, and when an individual is new to the notion that there are characters in the world, it is overwhelming. The messenger simply watched, no exasperation left her mouth, not at any sight. The veil was the most important article on the messenger. The people of Urbel possess yellow irises due to being regarded as holy, whereas Huum pigmentation cannot reproduce yellow irises. Any show of the iris could draw unnecessary attention to the messenger, and therefore it is a required garment.

However, in hindsight, perhaps wearing a veil is just as good at drawing attention as yellow irises, as she constantly found the gaze of those along the alleyways. In wandering through the maze like passages, she began to eavesdrop on a conversation nearby.

A smaller man was handing a man twice his size a crate of strange mechanisms. The messenger was intrigued by these wares, and watched intently.

"Gigantes, the prohibition on these parts have led to a sky rocketed selling price. I want these sold in the tavern as quickly as possible, for the highest price! They'll be gone in an instant, you will not even have to speak, they will see the price, pay you the money, and take their amount."

The larger man nodded, and left down an alleyway, the messenger followed.
Of course, the large man, Gigantes, noticed a cloaked figure following him. He thought nothing of it, but as he turned corner frequently, he noticed that the person was actually following him. He paused and turned around.

"What's yours problem?" He began to sputter in some thick accent similar to that of a backstreet thug. "Gets off my tail"

The messenger stared up at him without remarking a word.

"Yous not an assassin. I'ds be dead if yous was, so whos yous?"

He dropped the crate and stepped forward. The messenger reeled back, uttering a feminine gasp.
Gigantes ignored the messenger and picked his crate up again, resuming his journey to the tavern. The messenger continued, this time walking beside him. He was perplexed, to say the least, but decided that he could get the messenger to talk if he started a conversation.

"I'ma called Gigantes, but my names Karl. Yous got a name kid?"

Silence.

"Is got a brother in the army, he don like to hang around us anymore. Ya know? He thinks he's a big shot now that he's got somes platoon in the Northern campaign. He act like he's not a street rat, even though we raised in this s***, ya know? Either ways, he comes every couple months and brags. I'ds like to smash his face in hard, teach him a lesson or two, Ya know?"

Gigantes ignored the silence the messenger gave him, noticing that he reached the tavern. He stopped and turned to the messenger
"Yous probably shouldn't go in there, dangerous for women," and with that he kicked open the tavern door and entered.

The messenger waited outside, but was intrigued at this "tavern" idea. She slid up to the window and peered in, watching the scene unfold.

Grimwald was brooding in a faraway corner of the tavern, his hood up, and his arms on the table, one hand covering his mouth, and the other scratching the table with a knife. He was trying to ignore the commotion that the other tavern-goers were making. "No no...dammit..." he muttered, as he raked the table even harder with the sharp instrument. He was grumpy for two reasons. One, he just couldn't take what his father was doing, granted, his brother was enlisted in the army, and since father's been staying in bed most of the time...

He growled, which quickly turned into a whimper as the tavern door was swung open by a man that looked less than friendly.

Tsuru, as always tinkering with her rifle, sat in the near middle of the tavern, looking somewhat out of place due to everyone else congregating to the darker corners or the actual bar.

She was dressed in male attire, a barrette to hide her colorful hair, some bindings, baggy clothing, and a sandy colored cloak to hide her hourglass figure. She would easily be mistaken for a boy in his late teens, except for a late of facial hair (a fact partially hidden by oil smudges), and her voice, which was much to high for any boy. To hide the high voice she liked to pretend to be mute, and it worked on occasion. As long as there wasn't a big commotion around her she would be fine.

Then a rather large man, whom she assumed had the overheard name of Gigantes, busted through the door carrying a crate of parts, the kind of part Tsuru, and everyone else wanted. It was about that time she realized why there was one table in the dead center of tavern. She grabbed a hold of her rifle and coin purse and calculated the odds of what would go down. Fifty-Fifty, she decided. Fifty percent, that this ends badly. Fifty percent, that this ends really badly.

Gigantes set the crate on a table in the center of the tavern. It buckled under the weight of the heavy machinery, learning slightly to the right.
Immediately as the crate went down, the crowd began to shuffle about. The bartender readied a makeshift flag. This was a common occurrence in the tavern, and it acted as a sort of competition. The winners received the desired item and the losers often sported broken appendages and were left to grovel in the dirt.

Just then, clear diction shot across the tavern

"Hold it."

A man emerged from the furthest ends of the corner, crawling from his nest like a slime covered bottom feeder. He wore white hair down to his shoulders and his face was coarse, tattered by scars and the elements. His light armor showed heavy wear, but his sword remained spotless. The most telling feature of the man was his yellow eyes.
He kicked the table over, and planted his left foot firmly on the toppled crate's side, plucking a part from the floor.

"Scraps for the vultures I see." The last syllables hung in the air as he drew his sword and sliced open Gigantes' calf. "Listen, Gigantes. You street rats can scheme all you want, but this s*** is not going to rise in price or quality. Tell your boss that this tripe doesn't deserve to see the light of day, now get!"

Gigantes pulled himself up and limped out of the tavern, and just as he did so, the commotion settled. The customers and drunkards grumbled their complaints, and returned to their usual spots. It was then that the man spotted the messenger outside, peering in. He grit his teeth in frustration, sheathed his sword, and ran outside, pushing aside two unlikely patrons.
"You!" he began to shout. "I know you!"

The messenger shot up in terror, but watched as the man ran outside and pinned her against the wall. She forgot her fear as she noticed his yellow irises.

Just as expected the man slammed the crate down on Tsuru's table, causing it to lean away from her slightly, which was a good thing considering what happened next.

"Hold it," a voice shot through the tavern like a bullet through paper.

The voice isn't really what caught Tsuru's attention, though, not as much as the man's eyes. She was already attempting at moving away from the table as she saw his eyes. Yellow, not unlike portions of Tsuru's hair. Such a yellow she had never seen before in a person's eyes. She was so fascinated by these eyes she didn't quite catch the brief dialogue between the two men she was nearer to then she ought to been. In fact she didn't catch much of anything until she was pushed aside by the very man she was gazing at.

It was then she noticed the empty hand were she was holding her coin purse...

She looked around the room like an idiot, not knowing whether the yellow eyed man of one of these tavern rogues took it, or what to do about it.

Grim's worries was slightly mitigated when the giant simply placed a crate on the center table, although his fear came back after he noticed the tavern-goers moving about at whatever was in the container. He didn't care about it, or rather, he had no idea what what it was, nor what he could do with it.

"Hold it."

He made a quick jolt on his seat when he heard the clear voice. It felt like his father's voice, and he knew what he would've done about Grimwald's behavior. He quickly exited the tavern, ignoring that his father would be out of comission for weeks, and that the owner of the voice happened to be exiting the same way.

((Someone should have PMed me.))

He was dressed in an inconspicuous hood. From his top to his bottom, all were dark or earthen colours. All of his body was covered up including most of his face. His left eye was replaced with a glass one, whereas his other eye was golden in colour. It was an unusual colour but if he kept his hood on and just walked with the same downtrodden purpose as those around him, nobody would stop to question him. Not that anyone would stop Qalim ibn Mahmoud al-Sahrani, if he bothered to introduce himself. Attracting undue attention was not his goal, so much that he kept blades along his forearms, ready to pull them out with practised ease. Anyone who knew him were smart enough to leave well alone.

He was a keeper of the old ways. A historian, of sorts, never forgetting that somewhere out there, a greater being watched over them, indifferent and aloof, yet ultimately benevolent and merciful. The scars of fatal wounds a reminder that he served under a power unbeknownst to himself yet eerily familiar. But he was not a man of faith, simply a man making his way in hostile world, looking not for the divine but welcoming it all the same.

Just as he kept intangible knowledge in his mind, he also kept the more practical skill sets trained in to his muscles. He worked small jobs, if murder were to be described as small. No one really cared if some random scum bag disappeared from the streets one day, another would soon take his place. Wars fought on the back streets and alleyways of the city were his trade and opportunities were ripe as usual. Every so often, he'd get a weird request, but in all honesty, everyone was a criminal of some sort just waiting for his lethal visitation.

His preferred method was of course, blades. A gun left far more traces that one could follow so he did not use them. Qalim may have been pragmatic but he also swore to a quick, clean, and quiet kill. However household implements would suit him fine in a pinch; remembering that one time he used a quill pen to castrate some poor sod had it coming. All this paled to the true weapon hidden inside his right forearm. It was something he used in an emergency being wielded only once before. The marked stood no chance, some dead as they hit the floor, others still barely clinging to life as a head with no heart. They called it the Sahrani Scythe and only in hushed tones for no one had ever been able to confirm what kind of weapon it was and no one was eager to find out.

Tonight, he was free of work, a rarity but he savoured the lull; fish would eventually bite the hook. Which was why he was out in the Black Market district, looking for nothing in particular. He was mesmerised by the rhythm of the life in the place. Outside a tavern now, of which the customary ruckus was present, he saw Gigantes slinking out like a rat, someone he heard, was connected to someone of interest to Qalim. However, he dismissed the thought at the sight of the slit open calf. If his employee was this sloppy, what did that say about his employer? First impressions could colour ones perception quite well. That was not unusual of course, if it had not been for a man of similar eye colour to him throttling another woman. Lover's quarrel or not, he was curious of that man with the same coloured eyes. As far as he knew, he was the only one with such eyes. Qalim moved quickly, and silently, placing his left hand on the man's shoulder, allowing just his right eye to peer unobstructed from beneath the hood. Should the man turn his attention to him, he would shake his head and suggest they continue elsewhere.

Tsuru saw the yellow-eyed man leave the tavern quickly, as though he needed to be somewhere, and moments after saw a shady fellow follow him out. As both were likely suspects she decided she should at least try to follow one of them, or else, get back to root cellar she and her father called home.

As she shambled out the door in frustration, though, she realized that the situation outside might have been the really bad half of her fifty-fifty guesstimation.

She took in the surroundings quickly, and sharply, as was her skill as a tinkerer and sharpshooter. The behemoth Gigantes had a unsavory gnash along his calf, but seemed to be coping with the wound better than most men. The shady fellow was around, but not in Tsuru's main field of vision, so as to what he was doing could only be guessed. Then there was the yellow eyed man. He held a woman by the throat, while an unknown man held him by the shoulder. The unknown man hid his face, and the woman was veiled, else Tsuru would have probably been distracted by them having this unusual color for eyes too. No, this time Tsuru was fully alert, and was already tensing up for a fight-or-flight response.

The man with the yellow eyes noticed another man gripping his shoulder lightly. He threw the messenger to the ground and turned about face, glimpsing into the visible eye of the cloaked stranger. The yellow iris not different from his own, sticking out in contrast to the rest of his shadowed face. Hastily, he scanned the surrounding area. Two more individuals remained in the road, and there was little doubt that they were only spectators.

With a telling smirk, he sicked his icy grip on the man's shoulder, digging his fingers as far as he could into the flesh without any penetration.
"How many remnant clans exist? You're certainly not from mine, I do not recall you."

The messenger pulled her head up from the cobblestone street, watching the confrontation unfold. Little more than 24 hours on the surface and she already found herself in a life or death struggle, not exactly the best news to give to God. What shocked her the most was the other man carrying a yellow iris as well. If what she understood was right, then there might be several groups that still hold traits from Urbel, which was preposterous in theory. She had to speak up and inquire this.

"Please, explain these remnants." she politely cooed, but no immediate answer followed.

The grip was strong, that at least, was what Qalim felt.

"How many remnant clans exist? You're certainly not from mine, I do not recall you."

Qalim crooked his lips slightly, so there were others like him too in this city. Another page had to be amended.

"The numbers were never recorded for good reason, brother," he replied.

Qalim wasn't trying to be offensive in anyway, he just spoke as he normally did. All men were brothers under God after all, this man with the same coloured eyes especially so. Behind him he could feel the gaze of two onlookers, lightly nudging his head backwards as if a signal. He knew that if they within several strides, he could have them dead on the floor in the space of a yawn. Not that he could gauge the distance at this point so he continued,

"However, this is not the place to be causing commotion."

The woman that was thrown to the ground was likely ignorant of her own plight. Something that was not possible if they lived in this city for any length of time. The ignorant, stupid and foolish were the first to go. Could she then be a messenger from that faraway father? He would like to have the time to ruminate on this further though, it was inevitable that Gigantes came in contact with whatever passed for the law around these parts sooner or later.

"If you wish to enquire further, I shall be at the al-Filisteeni book store just a short ways north outside the Black Market," he spoke to both the man and the woman.

With that, Qalim turned and started to leave, catching a glimpse of the two onlookers. One a man, the other a woman both hopefully out of earshot. He hung his head low as he walked, slumping only a little bit as he walked in the opposite direction of where he said he was to be. It was only to mislead those without a sense of direction and those who suspected him of something or another. He almost brushed against the woman but as he saw, she was too tense to even permit such a thing, before he melted in to the crowd. It would take a skilled pursuer to tail him and escape his notice at the same time.

Wind swept the land as a vagrant slowly trudged into the city limits. His unusually long, tied up, raven hair, flowed gently with the wind as his eyes took in the sights of the indigent municipality. His arms crossed gently as he pulled on the cut sleeves of his long tan cloak. Beneath the opened over garment he wore a deep black tunic with white trim and a pair of wide bottomed dark indigo trousers that stayed fastened to his body with a gray belt. His footwear were an odd sandal like creation that stayed together with a series of straps, and beneath this he wore black leather-like stockings that rose not far above his ankles. On each arm he sported leather bracers and over top of these he wore a dark gray cloth cover that acted like sleeves (Though, they only rose just under his joint). At his side a long gentle curved sabre rested, sheathed in it's tight heavy wooden scabbard. The length and hilt of the weapon itself were very unusual though, compared to a standard sabre. The hilt was long enough for two hands to rest comfortably around it and was wrapped in a red material to allow for a better grip. Meanwhile the blade itself was much longer than a standard one handed sabre, long enough to classify the weapon as a two-handed weapon. The sword also lacked a standard hilt guard and instead had a simple circular guard.
With careful steps his feet gently pressed against the surface of the roads as he entered the city, his arms now carelessly at his side.

"Kill them," she stated calmly "Just kill them" Aranida turned away from what could possibly become a brawl in the streets. She had no patience for such things and felt that the best way to deal with them was to exterminate them. She compared it to the gardening she did at home, when a weed began to grow, you removed it from the root, otherwise it would grow back a few days later, choking her beloved plants. Then again, in these slums she truly could not say whether she had any such beloved plants. Nonetheless, it was her job to maintain order in these streets and that was what she would do.

She combed her fingers through her brown hair and returned to her seat in the carriage with a sigh. Everything in this city seemed to be a mess these days. Aranida watched as her right hand man, walked purposely towards the line of three men who had their muskets trained on the group of people who were no doubt going to be causing a disturbance, if not now, in the near future. She didn't want to watch what would happen next, she wasn't like the others of her position, relishing the deaths of these slummish people. It was sickening, like watching the execution of stray dogs. She tapped the side of the carriage and nodded as her driver looked back at her. She checked her pistols as a habit, and glanced back once more as the musketeers prepared to fire. She closed her eyes and leaned back as the carriage rolled away.

The man watched as the cloaked figured disappeared into the bustle of the crowd, headed out from the Black Market district. He pondered the actuality of many remnant clans actually existing. He left the clan years back, but it usually found some abstract way to haunt him to this day, and seeing another with the eyes. However, it should have come to no surprise to him that there were others. Legend states that when the original individuals were thrown down from Urbel, they split into several groups. Those that retreated from what would later be Tellus society did not devolve as quickly as the Tellus themselves, and their gene pool barely strayed from the original Urbel characteristics, with the eyes remaining the telling sign. There were few clan members that did not inherit the eye, instead they were born blind, a strange recessive trait only found in the clans' gene pools.

He retreated back to reality, still noticing the messenger on the ground. He forcefully pulled her up, deciding she'd be safer outside the district. He did not turn back to watch the two behind him, fearing no repercussions for not doing so.
Without a word they winded through a maze of alleyways, finally resurfacing in the central city square.

"Alright, we're out of the district, you can remove the veil."
He began to reach for it, but she reeled back and shook her head.

Dismayed, he shook the response off, "What's your name?"
No answer. Dissatisfied, he gave in on starting a conversation.

"Alright, well, I'm Tyr. I kill things and I make a profit."

The messenger meekly rose her head. She was not sure whether Tyr was the right man. His eyes portrayed him as one of Urbel, but there was little else denoting that it was true. She gave in to her curiosity, swallowed her fear, and muttered, "Your eyes, and that man's eyes. They're yellow."

Tyr exhaled a deep sigh. He was asked this question quite a bit, and he was always careful to never give anyway any information pertaining to the clans, but explaining how the other man had the same eyes was near impossible without sounding like he made it up.

"How about you tell me your name first?"
It was all he could muster up in order to dodge the question, but he was not expecting her to answer this time.

"Sera, that is my name."
She was anxious by now, she desired to know why their eyes were like hers. And if that did not count enough as an answer, she took off her veil, revealing her soft face, auburn hair, and yellow eyes.

Tyr reeled back, and retorted, "We need to discuss this with him," immediately gripping her wrist and heading towards that bookstore mentioned.

Al-Filisteeni, a name from a forgotten age, now graced a lowly book store. It was a small shop, set up in a two storey building close to the Black Market. There was only one small window and during business hours, the heavy wooden door was left open, the passage only obstructed by several stringed beads hanging from the roof. Inside, there was only enough space for one person between the shelves and the counter where transactions were handled filled up a quarter of the room's size. The books were heavy, thick, musty and usually written quite dryly as they were texts and treatises on one thing or another. Each of these were of course copies, not that a lot knew that, given the small amount of patrons. Usually, patrons would come in, browse for their books and ask for a price. Haggling would ensue and the patron would get their order registered. One half was paid up front for the printing and the other half was paid after it was completed and the books delivered to the customer.

The store was operated by three people, Qalim ibn Mahmoud al-Sahrani, his father Mahmoud ibn Faris al-Sahrani, and Qalim's adopted son, Bahaa ibn La-Ahad. Bahaa was but a child of a meagre 8 years yet the boy was smart enough to converse, read and write. Arithmetic was still out of his grasp but Qalim was sure Bahaa would learn it eventually. Bahaa was tasked with looking after the store front and fetching Qalim's father for matters outside of Bahaa's scope, mostly those concerning the value of a book and various business related issues. Mahmoud was blind but little escaped his notice. He knew everything that happened in the store, down to what exactly was where in a certain book. Outside, Mahmoud was a fish out of water and so he usually stayed in the private section of shop sipping whatever concoction he managed to put together and brew. It fell on Qalim to print and then deliver the books, the latter only if the customer didn't come in to collect it at a prearranged date.

Mahmoud was sitting by the counter as Qalim came in, to his slight surprise. The slight yet distinct sound made by the beads upon his entrance alerting his father to his presence.

"Qalim, the ink has dried on that woman's order, go fetch it," Mahmoud commanded.

"Yes father," he replied.

"And find me that rascal Bahaa, I have been sitting here all day!" his father continued to complain.

That was strange, Qalim thought. There was always two people in the store, in case anyone thought it would be a great idea to rob a book store, least of all a store owned by hired blade. There had been stories and accusations, mostly accusations, that Qalim was an assassin but there was never any evidence to suggest he was.

He walked in to the private section, where in the centre of the room was a printing press and several pages of books were spread out drying. Like his father said, the set of pages that would later form a book were dry. On the upper floor, reachable only by Qalim climbing up a certain pillar, was where the rest of the books were kept, and where he worked, putting together books or managing his side job. Sliding the pages in to a folder, he climbed up quickly, before removing his hood and knives. They would stay within arms reach of course, but he set about piecing together the pages for the book. He barely remembered who wanted the book. A woman by the name of Aranida or was it Aradina? It wasn't important. He worked quickly and carefully, mindful that he would have guests soon.

If there was one good thing you could say about Grimwald, it was that he proficient in running away. He didn't even register the danger, he simply ran as fast as he could away from it. He also managed to taking a crouching stance, making him a smaller target.

When he was sure it was over, he looked around at the surroundings that he ignored. He was leaning on a wall in a alleyway, there were few people around, and there was a smell that he didn't want to know the source of.

He groaned, rubbing his knuckles across his boyish face. "Not a day in the town, and I got into trouble!" he exclaimed. He sighed, and went off to a building. Maybe they had some menial work for me he thought. A work good for only a farmboy.