66th Ymiden, 717
The first thing Peake had done that morning was walk the town. He even skipped breakfast which, for someone as overweight as he was, seemed like something unusual. It happened, nonetheless, and in the early breaks of dawn, Peake limped down the streets. The sojourn was not mere wander, of course. There was a set direction to his step, a set of instructions imbued within his mind, silently read and obeyed by his leg, his prosthetic and his cane. Many times he’d wipe his eyes awake, for they ached due to the night. Once again he had barely managed to sleep. His only comment about said certainty about his current life was a deep yawn. As he approached the so called Glass Tree, and made sure he was alone in the sort of improvised worship chapel, he had pulled his pants down. Holding onto the trunk, he’d deposit his own gift to the Immortals just like Rynlism had taught him. The Immortals were granted their daily sacrifice, the most severe insult a human could’ve offered them, and then he’d return to his Inn, believing even more in the power of man in the world.
Once back, Peake had laid in bed, waiting for breakfast. Not even the landlady was up, and yet the nobleman didn’t bother in kicking her door until she did. Instead, he reflected on some matters – mostly about the Council, Syhera, and his future. The reflection ended with some bitter conclusions and not a bit of sleep, so eventually he returned upon his previously visited option, kicking the landlady’s door until she woke. With a scowl she’d prepare him breakfast, Peake being there with his own scowl to watch out for possible spit which did not came, for her kitchen was open and visible to the tenants. Boiled water and oatmeal, some unsweetened and strong tea, and some jerky not even his dentures could rip apart. Leaving his empty plates for the woman to clean up, Peake ventured into an awakened world, where the working classes already began their daily schedules. Slaves here and there, some of them with fresh bruises or rectal aches, dragged their feet, marching to the rhythm of a silent cadence, a procession of despair with a few hints of obedience.
As soon as the crowds started flooding Almund, Peake sought refuge in a brothel recommended to him before his journey into town. The door was crossed, the lights were dimmed, and upon paying twenty golden nel, Peake found himself surrounded with ten new friends, all of them more than willing to please him were he even to look at his crotch. His intentions with them, however, were nothing more than to enjoy a conversation with hired friendships. Whores made good friends, mostly because they were paid to play along. Upon being offered beverages and spirits, Peake declined, instead opting for something slightly less expected of his tastes; apple juice. He was served well, and with his friends he shared a good time. They talked about a lot, but mostly about politics. The first moments of jests and fake laughter turned gained a serious tone as time passed. He heard their concerns, told them his, and they all agreed with each other. By the time they were done, whores laid on his lap, some hugged to his arms, one filing his toe nails whilst another gave him a back massage.
It was then when he left, satisfied with their services, and it was then when the knave had chosen to strike. The boy must’ve been stalking the man, for it had planned ahead. Planning ahead meant attacking from behind, of course, by tripping the goliath. He tried yanking off the cane off Peake’s hands, but the male gripped it as if he gripped to his life. Peake cared not for the cane itself, but it was his property, and so he’d defend it to death. Panicked, the boy let go, but caught another prize in his eye – the prosthetic. Whilst Peake stirred as awkwardly as a beached whale, the boy undid his straps and pulled off his prosthetic, which due to its design and the rare metals could very well be worth half an onyx nel. Before the crowd could even react, the boy muttered an apology and ran away, almost as if ashamed of his actions. Peake only saw his ruffled brown hairs and the awkward running gait before the thief turned the corner and escaped.
Swearing vengeance to the skies above, almost certain the Immortals were sabotaging him due to his insult to them, Peake was aided by a few pedestrians and returned to the interior of the brothel. When he emerged ten bits later, he had crafted himself a new prosthetic made out of a stool, whose seat had been acclimatized to his stump with pillows, and which was bound to his upper leg with elegant curtain tie backs. It was painful to even imagine his situation, let alone witness it, but Peake nonetheless set out into the streets in search for the metallic dragon that was his leg.
