Downtown Druid (STUBBED)

Stories

### Chapter 1: Ch 1 The Maw

The crowd was packed together closely, writhing in a mass of loud, screaming flesh covered in the scent of sweat and misery. It was the first day of the month, and that meant one thing, fresh meat. The noise began to build as they saw activity at the top of the maw. Men pushed and shoved each other to get a better look as they saw guards and goods start to take their places at the edges of the Maw.

Dantes watched everything unfold from the outskirts. He knew from experience how dangerous it was to be too close to the monthly drop. He still had the scar between his ribs from where he’d been stabbed trying to reach a sack of potatoes. His right hand drifted to the scar as he watched.

He’d hoped to have saved enough to avoid this month’s drop, but after losing a few days' rations on a bad roll of dice he was hoping he was due for some better luck. He had other, less dangerous, options of course. He could do odd jobs for some of the gangs, steal, or even try scavenging in the outer parts of the pit for mushrooms or meat. He'd do all three, but first he wanted to see if he could work things in his favor here.

“Clear the Maw!” came a magically enhanced shout from the guards above.

Those prisoners gathered under that small patch of sky that represented the only entry and exit to their prison began moving out of the sunlight and into the shadows at the edge, pressing back into the crowd. Some stayed where they were of course, risking it all for a chance at some new shoes, a decent meal, or a new cellmate to help pass the time.

That shout was the only warning before the guards began throwing down provisions. Even over the yelling of his fellow prisoners Dantes could hear the thuds as forty to fifty pound bags began to hit the ground, putting up puffs of sand. Those still in the center of the Maw scrambled. Tearing the bags open with crude shivs, claws, teeth or tusks.

A human, in the middle of tearing open what looked to be a sack of turnips, was suddenly flattened by another sack. There were a few sympathetic “oohs”, but they were drowned out by the laughter of the guards above and the less sympathetic prisoners below. The guards had long made a game of trying to crush prisoners when they could, it was a tradition that went back more than a hundred years.

Those who managed to avoid being crushed started to fill crude sacks, pockets, or bare hands with whatever they could. A few of the more desperate ones simply began to devour whatever food they found the moment it was in their hands.

While some of the guards continued throwing sacks of supplies down, the rest of them began lining up the new prisoners at the Maw’s edge. They stood there with nothing, but the clothes on their backs. Dantes could still remember his own time standing on the edge. The fear, the rage, the determination as he tried to track the most valuable supplies as they made their way down. There was the accidentally enhanced sound of a mage casting featherfall on them, then the sound of a guard’s foot hitting a back.

The first of them to be thrown into the pit, a half elf of some sort, was weeping as he fell, trying to cling to the edge before a guard chucked a rock at him. Before he’d even landed, an orc in the center of the Maw leapt up and grabbed him by the ankles, then slammed him onto the ground. He beat him for a few moments, before emptying his pockets, and stealing his boots. Leaving him unconscious. Once that was done, he moved to rob another prisoner that was stuffing his pockets with strips of dried meat from one of the sacks.

Dantes didn’t flinch as he watched the exchange. He’d seen much worse happen to newcomers. Crying on your way down could have far harsher results than simply being beaten and robbed. If the newcomer was lucky he’d be left alone after that.

The next in line to be thrown down into the prison bolted before the mage could enchant him with featherfall, and aimed himself straight down, head-first. His neck snapped as he landed. There was a brief round of applause with solidarity from the Guards and Prisoners, usually there were two or three of those per month, and Dantes rated that one among the best executed suicides he’d ever seen. They were rarely so cleanly done.

After that the fresh meat was savvier. They’d land, fight back, try to scavenge what supplies they could, then make a break for it. It was at this point a lot of the other prisoners that had been loading up supplies began running for it too, moving in numbers improved their chances.

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They needed the numbers, because it was at the end of where the light came down from the Maw that they started to run into the gangs. Dantes watched as a dwarf made the mistake of trying to run through the Elfland Kings. He had a half-dozen elves on him in seconds. Dantes could only see flashes of what happened to him between elven legs, but he was certainly robbed and beaten, likely killed.

Dantes moved more closely to the edge of the crowd, eyeing those in the center that were making their moves. He saw a second individual, an elf covered in tattoos of trees and vines, walk calmly to Elfland Kings, where he was embraced, a member from above if he had to guess, and someone to avoid. Then he saw the orc who’d beaten the fresh meat get cornered by the dwarves of Clan Stonedust and taken out at the legs.

Finally, he eyed a human man. The man wasn’t fresh, but a clear veteran. No tattoos marking him as belonging to a gang, and two heavy sacks slung over his shoulder. The human waited for the dumber chaff to make a break for it, then in the moment he saw a gap between the Elfland Kings and the Collared, he ran for it.

Dantes watched as the man jumped over a halfling that went for his legs, avoided a shiv from another human by bashing him aside with a sack, and finally reached the space between the gangs. Dantes was rooting for him as he ran. The two gangs converged on him, but luckily they got involved in a brawl with one another before they could do anything about him.

Dantes began to move along the outside of the crowd, which the man made part by tossing a sack up into the air, which they all started to dive for. Dantes had been watching him though, and had seen that he’d had that sack before he’d gone to the center of the Underprison. By the time they’d realized it was full of nothing but rocks, he’d already broken through.

Dantes slid into a side alcove of the tunnel the man was headed toward. He was impressed by the man’s luck, and ingenuity. He was also quite grateful for it.

As the man moved past him, Dantes took the rock he’d been holding in his hand, and slammed it into the back of the man’s head. He fell with a thud, and Dantes quickly grabbed his sack, and ran deeper into the tunnel. Saying a silent prayer to the God of Thieves as he weaved his way deeper into the Rendhold Underprison.

…

He took a long winding path back to his cell, frequently taking side paths, or changing direction. It was hard to follow people inconspicuously on narrow paths, but it paid to be careful. Plenty of prisoners knew tricks to stay hidden. Luminous mushrooms, and strange purple stones put in place by those that had once chosen to live there lit his way as he moved.

He took the long way around the Undermarket, passed through the Collared’s territory where he exchanged brief nods with a few of them that he recognized, and then he moved to the far reaches only inhabited by the kobolds in the deepest section of the prisons, rats, and himself.

In Dantes’ five years in the underprison, he’d quickly learned the value of being hidden, particularly if you were planning on making your way without the protections of the gangs. Staying on the outskirts made that easy.

He slipped between a large crack in the wall, pulling the sack of goods behind himself, and came into his sanctum. He heard a squeak, and reached into the pack he’d stolen to find a piece of dried meat. He tore it in half and placed it in the corner. Shortly after, a large brown rat moved out of the shadows and began tearing into it.

“You're welcome,” he said, as he moved further inside. He tossed the sack to the side, and grabbed the small clay pitcher he kept in the center of the room where it collected drops of fresh water that trickled down continuously. He took a deep sip directly from it, then carefully watered the small clumps of green moss growing throughout his cavern, they were the only source of color he usually saw day to day. With those two daily duties done, he emptied his score on the raised stone he used as a table. Three and a half potatoes, two handfuls of dried meat, a few containers of hardtack, some bolts of cotton, and even fruit, maybe even enough to make a bit of booze with. He smiled and nodded to himself. It was a solid haul, and would last the month if he was careful and found the right trade for the cotton.

His smile turned slowly to a grinding of teeth as he looked over the goods. Just over five years ago he would’ve been emptying a sack of coins and gems. Now he was excited about the scraps the city sent down. He felt the bitterness he kept in check start to bubble up to the surface. Remembered the feeling when the ladder he was on was pushed off the side of the building, when he landed on the hard cobblestone streets. The beating he’d endured from the Rendhold guard afterward.

He heard another squeak behind him. He let out a breath, and tore off another piece of dried meat, and tossed it into the corner where the rat was waiting expectantly.

“I’ve got the extra today, but don’t get used to it.”

The rat responded by eating in silence.

“Good point, no reason to dwell. I have food, I have shelter, I’m alive. There’s nothing else,” he said, and it was true. Survival was the only thing that mattered now, was the only thing that could matter.

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### Chapter 2: Ch 2 Youll Owe Me A Favor

Dantes cut one of the potatoes in two using a sharp outcropping of rock in the corner, then he took a few pieces of dried meat, a bit of hardtack, and a few grapes and set to eating. He poured some water over the hardtack to soften it as he ate the rest, hearing the rat eating in the corner as they each ate their separate meals. When he was done, he went to the spot where fresh water dripped from the ceiling, and used it to rinse the blood off of his hands before drying them on his jacket. He then put his water pitcher back where it could collect water, and he stored the remaining food in a small alcove he covered with a heavy stone. No one knew where he kept his food, or where he lived for that matter, but it tended to keep better when he had it stored there, and while he’d already fed the rat, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t take more. He would do the same thing in its position.

Once he was done he found himself with the one thing he’d had in excess since he’d first been thrown down into the maw, time. The options he had to spend it were the same as always. He could check the market, which was probably nice and full now that the resupply had dropped. Those lucky enough to get goods would be trading them for booze, weed, or companionship, flooding the market. He could shoot some dice, but that’s what had forced him to risk the drop. He’d almost certainly gamble again, the boredom would give him no choice, but he’d wait for some other time. The God of Thieves had already blessed him that day, and trying to gamble again may push things a bit far with the God of Fortune. His last option would be to visit the Collared and see if they had any work.

Of the gangs, they were weakest by a wide margin, but they were also the only ones he had good relations with. A Midtown Mutt like him was always in danger from any of the race-based gangs, which were also the largest in the Pit. The other, smaller gangs were a toss-up. Depended on how much they knew about him from before he’d been thrown to the pit. He’d screwed plenty of people over, too many to know which gangs may have it out for him. Though after five years, he wasn’t certain anyone even remembered who he was. That thought stung as he parsed it, but he pushed that down.

The market was the best option, but he’d need something to trade. Either that or he’d steal, but he’d found that it was much harder to steal from paranoid hardened criminals in the Pit than it had been to do so in the backstreets of Rendhold, even on the day of the drop when the booze and goods flowed and everyone was a bit more care free. He’d done it before with no consequence of course, but he saw no reason to take the risk when he already had enough to get by.

He moved to the far corner of his cave. In that corner, was a bucket he’d gratefully scavenged quite a long time ago, and next to that was an experiment. While only the hardiest of plants could grow within the Pit, fungus didn’t have that problem. Dantes had been hoping to be able to grow a variety that he could eat in order to better tide him over, but the fat blue mushrooms he’d managed to cultivate had been poisonous. He’d tested it by slipping a small amount into a communal stew and watching the results. Humans and elves had strongly negative results, Orcs, Kobolds, and Dwarves didn’t seem to be affected by it. His own stomach was tougher than any pure humans or elves, probably thanks to a dwarven ancestor somewhere along his family tree, but he wasn’t willing to take the risk. Still, he was certain there were plenty of other prisoners who needed food, or poison, for whatever reason.

He plucked the majority of the mushrooms, leaving a handful to continue cultivating, and wrapped them in a loose cloth pouch that he’d made, which he then tucked into one of the myriad pockets in his heavy jacket. He tucked a shiv into his sleeve, had a sip of tepid water, used his bucket, and slipped back out through the crack. He looked around, his vision well attuned to the gloom that surrounded him, his ears scanned for noise, but he heard nothing and saw only a few roaches skittering in the dark. Certain no one was nearby, he began making his way toward the market.

It was smooth going until he reached Collared territory. He got a few nods from them as he walked. They had an understanding, and his face was not unfamiliar to them. The Collared was a group of former mages that had been thrown into the pit for various crimes. Some had turned their magic to thievery, others had murdered academic rivals. Dantes even had it on good authority that the leader of the Collared, Old Merle, had turned a member of the Rendhold Council into a chicken, cut off his head, and ate him. If they had their powers in the Pit, they would’ve been its undisputed rulers, unfortunately for them, they’d all been cut off from it. They were called Collared because it was the bronze collars that were wrapped around their necks that sealed them from their powers.

There had been a number of attempts by them to remove the collars, but they were bound not only by metal, but by spellcraft. Dantes didn’t fully understand it, but one of them had explained to him that the physical, and metaphysical aspects of the binding needed to be broken at once, and in order to do that, they needed a mage with active powers, and a locksmith. You needed a mage to break the lock, and needed to break the lock to have a mage.

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Just as he was moving through the exit he heard a voice behind him.

“Dantes, wait up!” It was a young half-elf man, wearing tattered magus robes and a bronze collar that had been thoroughly scratched at by something metal. The man was tall and wiry, with a kind of gangly walk that reminded Dantes of the rolling gait he’d often see used by the sailors at the docks.

“What is it, Televor? Need another loan?” He kept walking as he spoke.