Water has a strange effect on people. It can calm them, listening to the sound of the rushing water. Or it reminds them of things they will never see again.
The water was brackish, grey, oily streaks stretched through the waves.
Wave sloshed against a naked leg, a bare foot, dirty with mud.
Corpses were nothing unusual in the Wrenhaven River. It was almost common to fish a body out of the water every day. Some unhappy soul, ending their life, or someone thoroughly removed and thrown in.
People always throw things in the river. There were secrets whispering in the riverbed, of sunken coins, a string of pearls a lady had worn when she jumped, never to return again.
Things washed ashore whispered of sunken ruins, kingdoms and old beliefs. Bones and runes and tales tainted and half-forgotten.
Sometimes they were found. Sometimes they were more worthless than other times. One man's trash was another man's diamond.
The river had seen so much blood,death and destruction,it didn't really care for one more dismembered or robbed sack of bones. These would stay hours if not even half a day, until somebody discovered the body. And basically it was meaningless. Dead people do not hurry, finally.
The body was white, eerie blue almost, in the dim light of the morning.
It was a woman, almost a girl, arms stretched, naked. With the palms up, she lay sleeping, nails torn and bloody. A single silver ring glistened on one finger.
Crusted blood streaked her hair. It once had been long, combed back into an elegant knot.
Now it was wild, flowing around her face. Her mouth was slightly opened as if to draw a surprised breath. She'd never breath again, and whoever had laid her to rest on the sandy shore had taken care that it was unmistakable visibly.
Her neck, long and frail, was cut. Not one simple slash, but angry, like claws striking at prey.
Dead eyes stared into nothingness, a milky streak hiding their blue colour. They didn't see the Seagulls that circled above. White dots on a gray sky, they moved closer fast. Clattering their screeching beaks,they'd get to work soon. Always greedy,always hungry.
The dead woman wouldn't mind. SHe wouldn't notice.
Dead people seldom do.
Close by, on a bridge, a man looked down, to where the corpse was half hidden.
Eyes as cold as a winter night were filled with a glimmer. He wore gloves, old, once black, faded to brown, bleached by the sun. This gloved hands twisted a ring as silver like the one the woman was wearing.
Hushed whispers, silent screams with hands clawing through the air, twisted hair flowing free, blue eyes wide. Let go let go it hurts, it hurts, let go.
A ring tossed into the river. Never to be found again.
Silver glittering in light, no sound except the seagulls and the horn of a ship in the distance.
Hunger, still not sated. Never sated. He needs to go, not to loose himself in the moment. There are more. Always more.
On the other side of the city, a house burnt to the ground
It was a shattering fire.
The earth seemed to shake as an explosion tore it apart, in the middle of the night. It came out of nowhere.
Bricks shattered. Glass splintered.
Bodies scorched and burnt,unrecognizable, like scattered leaves all across the place.
People gathered fast. It didn't take long for a small crowd to find their way out. Some were clearly there to watch. Some tried to put the fire out.
Rumours spread as fast. A accident, some said. The man inhabiting the lower floor by dealt with explosive goods. Maybe a tank of whale oil hadn't been put in place, and toppling down, incinerated the building.
Some sort of terror attack? Wild minds asked.A protest? A reminder of opportunism?
The city had celebrated. The next days, not so much.
It wasn't devastating. It wasn't even that remarkable. No one knew of the men scorched to death by flames,fueled not only by explosives but also by vengeance. A tragic circumstance that they had been having a little late night meeting, probably just chatting and laughing.
One could imagine them in comfortable leather chairs, maybe with a cigar or a whiskey.
Some left family. Some vanished without anyone to care for their legacy.
If one would have asked about these men, there would have been multiple answers.
He was a respectable member of our institution.
He was a nice neighbor.
He drank too much and had too many women, but no harm in that, right?
What was left unsaid, spoke as much truth?
He drank too much and harrassed the maids. He paid them to keep their mouth shut. No harm was done, right?
He was a silent man. He used his fists more than his tongue.
Respectable means nothing. Not if you use status and wealth as a guard.
Poor men. You can't escape fire with fists. You can't pay it to go away. Or be silent.