Tara was returning from outside the city walls from where she went to pick wild mushrooms. She was lucky enough to get some potatoes as well. She hoped Jerome would be able to find some food for the children before she got home to cook. She had spent too much time in the fields outside the city. Tara sighed. She had no other choice. To get them food, she had to work. Moss had also gone to look for something to do to earn them some food.

If only she could earn some cuts. These farmers who were in charge of the fields, were a bunch of greedy thieves, the lot of them. They would rather pay with food instead of putting money in their workers’ hands — well those who weren’t truly employed but were looking for a quick cut. A few copper cuts would go a long way. She could buy a few things inside the city. Well, perhaps a select few things. Most goods in Farryn cost more than a few cuts. That was because the city catered mostly to sacred artists.

Tara sighed. It would take a lot of risks to earn a crystal coin, even a low-grade crystal coin. The fields just outside the city walls were the safest place for someone like her to work, she couldn’t go monster-hunting, and she didn’t have the strength or the stomach for it. And neither did Moss. Old Wen did it in his prime, and it helped to pay for a lot of things that had helped them survive till now.

The City of Farryn had a lot of land around it used for farming and rearing herbivorous magical beasts. That was where she was useful, not in the wild. Tara sighed again, bemoaning her own weakness.

Oh, what it’ll taste like to eat a magical beast, she thought as she rushed to get into the city before a line started to form. She thought about the cattle she had seen just outside the walls. Only nobles were rich enough to buy them or rear them.

Just one bite and she was sure her core would grow more powerful. She could use more essence as it were. The slum was isolated from the rest of Farryn — not just physically but also with ambient essence. Not enough essence flows in the slum, making the sacred artists who live there to grow and progress slowly. Too slowly, in fact. Not that there was anything she could do about it. Their fate was decided by the ruling family.

Tara had grown up in the orphanage herself, inheriting nothing from her parents except for her name. She never knew who her parents were, only that they gave her a name for which she was grateful. Which meant they didn’t want her, or they died — she would never know. Old Wen had been the only source of comfort and protection she’d had all these years. Before Moss came along, she had been lonely. She was never taken in as a disciple by any of the nobles after her initiation as a sacred artist during Mehn Agrh’ur and that was when she met Moss. Old Wen had taken in the poor orphan and they had lived together in the orphanage ever since then.

Many orphans had come and gone after her — a large majority of whom had died from health issues. Only the strong survive in the slums. Diseases ate away at the children, slowly ending them one by one. It’s been seventy years now and she had grown numb to the deaths. She couldn’t remember how many children had died in her hands, unable to help them. At one point she stopped counting.

Old Wen had told her not to invest her emotions into the children because not many of them survive. She hadn’t listened at the time. Now after so many deaths, she had simply grown numb.

“You there! What are ya doin’ loitering around?” A guard took a step toward her. “Get your ass outta here!”

Tara ran, her weak legs carrying her bony frame as fast as she could. She had almost forgotten that there were many rules on this side of the city. But the essence in the air felt so rich, she had unconsciously started to rotate her core to absorb it.

She crossed the formation that separated the slums from the rest of the city and breathed a sigh of relief. The smell of mold, piss, and shit assaulted her senses as she crossed into the slums. Cobbled streets gave way to dirt tracks and stone walls became wooden shacks.

“Oi, Tara,” someone called out.

“Cowhide?” she looked over at the skinny man, ogling her as he walked over to her. Although she was over seventy years old, sacred artists aged slowly and thus lived very long lives. She looked no more than a woman in her mid-twenties, with black hair and a pretty, albeit skinny face and body. Her only assets that stood out were her large and perky bosom.

Tara quickly adjusted the sack of mushrooms and potatoes in her hands, making it cover her chest. Cowhide may not be a threat to her, but that didn’t mean she was comfortable with him ogling her as he did.

“Yer boys are in trouble. They went ‘n stole from the guard.”

Tara bolted. What crazy adventures have they gone on now? Jerome might be smart and acted like an adult, but he was too adventurous! He took too many risks without thinking of the consequences!

She ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Although she was weak for a Sprout, she was still faster than a normal mortal. Thus it took her less than fifty breaths to get within thirty yards of the orphanage.

Someone barreled through Cowhide’s shack, hurling wood and broken mud tiles everywhere. Tara’s eyes widened as she saw Jerome push out of the wreckage. She thought about what Cowhide would demand for this but put the thought aside. The shack was already falling apart anyway. Jerome just gave it a little nudge is all.

“Stop right there!” an officer of the guard roared at Jerome. He was holding a whip in hand ready to use it.

No, no. Not on her watch. Tara raced up to the officer. Up close, his belt had the image of only one sun — the lowest rank in the city guard. This should be easy. The guards loved it when someone kissed their asses. Nothing new to her. But she won’t be doing any favors. That was where she drew the line. But Tara wondered for how long. How long before she could no longer protect her chastity? Old Wen would not be there to protect her always. The man was fading as it were, slowly, but she could see the signs, no matter how much he tried to hide it. He was almost 250 years old after all. And Sprouts didn’t live past 300 years of age.

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Tara jumped in front of the guard to stop him from using his whip on her boys. He almost bumped into her before stopping. “Please officer, forgive them. They are just children.”

“Are they yours?!”

“Yes, officer. Do please forgive them,” she pleaded again.

“Your little rascals think they can get away with stealing from the guard?!”

Tara turned back to Jerome. “Jerome, give back what you stole.”

“We didn’t steal it,” Jerome answered, glaring at the guard. “It’s payment for work we would be doing.”

“Work you haven’t done yet!” the guard barked at him in anger.

“I said my siblings are hungry! We just wanted to make sure they get something to eat!” Jerome shouted back.

“I don’t believe that! And you’d be taking more strokes as a consequence for stealing from the guard!”

More strokes? Does that mean they’ve been flogged before? Tara held in her anger. It was best not to show anger towards the one she was trying to appease.

“Please, officer. I have some mushrooms from the fields… and some potatoes. You can have them. I can even prepare some for you—”

The guard’s expression changed to shock, and then he looked around as if someone was stalking him, stepping away from her. Tara didn’t know what must have caused him to change his behavior so fast, but he was no longer as imposing as he was a moment ago. In fact, he looked afraid.

“Make sure you go back to do the work we gave you, if not, my superior will track you down,” the officer said. Doti and Dreamer took a step back at the mention of a superior, “and whip you till your skin falls off!”

By the Light, what had they done to my boys? Tara thought as the guard stalked off. She turned to Jerome after the guard vanished from view.

“Well?” she glared at him waiting for an explanation. Jerome scowled in the direction the guard went, mumbling some nonsense about pigheaded guards.

“Why did you take food from the guard without doing the work, Jerome?” she put a little more bite into her words.

Jerome looked at her, calming down. Tara wondered if she had ever scared the child or not. Maybe not. He was too strong-headed to be scared by a few words.

“The kids were hungry,” he said, scowling. As if he wasn’t a ‘kid’ himself. Tara felt like smacking him in the head for putting them all in danger like that!

“I’ve told you to stop calling them that!” she snapped. “You are all children not ‘kids’!”

“Always reaching above your station,” a new voice reached her from the side. One she didn’t mind hearing right now. “You’ll get yourself and your friends in trouble one day, Jerome.”

“Got myself out of trouble now, didn’t I?” Jerome said, still convinced he had everything under control. Tara wanted to lash out in anger at him.

“Do you seriously think you could have outrun a sacred artist without intervention?” Rihal asked, tapping his stick on the dirt floor as he walked toward them.

Now that she thought about it, the four boys were ahead of the guard as they raced toward the Orphanage. Which was weird to see. It would take a Blank at least three full breaths to put down four unruly boys who couldn’t wield essence. A guard who was a Sprout would take even less time. And this one had probably been chasing them from the gutters a few ten yards away. Rihal must have done something to slow down the guard, if not they wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Jerome pointed in the direction the guard left. “Didn’t you see that?”

Tara finally snapped.

Thwack! She smacked him across the cheek.

“Heh,” Rihal said. “I bet ‘you’ didn’t see that coming.”

~~~

Rihal watched the children scamper inside and told their caretaker, Tara, to meet him after she was done preparing some food for them. Sometimes he forgot this was the slums and the children he comes to tell stories hadn’t eaten since they woke up. He was also not allowed to give to them too freely all the time, but he could work around that rule.

The Sprout came out after a long while, all spruced up in her nicest robe. Rihal sighed. Tara wanted something he wasn’t ready to give. He had not the slightest spark of interest for her. She was nice and lovely-looking, top-heavy but she was tall and it definitely suited her, a little skinnier than normal but nothing that couldn’t be fixed with more essence. But his heart still mourned another.

“Take this,” he held out a bag of cuts to her.

She took it and paused. The jangle of coins inside was all she needed to know he was giving her money. To her it might be more money than she had ever seen or held, money she would think he had been saving up for a while now. But to him it was not worth his salt; just a few copper cuts to help feed the children and stop them from taking rash actions like they did today.

“Rihal, this is too much. I can’t take it.”

Rihal held up a hand to stop her from refusing. “It’s not going to be a problem for me. Just make sure to keep them off the streets for a while.” He turned around wanting to leave but looked back and said, “Also make sure they do the work they’ve been given. If anything they should honor their own words.”

“Of course. I’ll make sure of it.”

Rihal sensed she wanted to say more but he was already walking away. His walking stick clacking on the old wood of the many makeshift homes in the slums was all that could be heard. The dirt tracks here were narrow because houses were built too closely to each other. So he could move around while tapping on their wooden walls.

The sun had set and many in the slums had gone to rest for the night. The rest of the city was livelier at night than the slums. One couldn’t blame these poor folks. One had to have enough to eat before thinking of pleasure.

“Who the hell damage ma darn shack?!” someone walked out of the debris of broken wood and mud tiles in front of him. “You! I know ya! You da blind soldier who teach ‘em bois to fight? Ain’t ya the one who set ‘em up to dis, eh?... eh?”

Rihal tilted his head at the Drudge pointing at him and spewing spittle everywhere. The man was intentionally blocking his way to prevent him from passing. A drudge — the lowest Realm a sacred artist could be — trying to block his way? The man didn’t know the meaning of danger. With a slight pulse of essence from his core. The man fell down on his face and passed out.

Heh? Maybe that was too much. But he shrugged off the thought. Serves him right, though.

Rihal crossed over him and walked away. He had to go prepare for Mehn Agrh’ur.