A shared sword & sorcery setting: City of Scum

[StillStunned]

The sun was setting and Flower was lost.

“Fuck.” The word came easily to lips that only a year before would have made a big O just at the thought of saying it. “Fuck.”

The street she found herself on was clear of mud and litter. The plaster on the houses might be flaking here and there, but it was kept clean and there were signs of repairs. It was a street where people were proud to live.

They were no fools, though, and every door had an iron grate in front, every window had heavy shutters. The alleys were empty of the usual crates and barrels that littered the City’s darker corners, and the walls were too high to climb.

The sun was setting, and the ghouls came out at night.

“Fuck.” It didn’t seem enough. “Fuck!”

-- from a WIP: "The Only Flower On Rose Street"

 

[DraegonDaddy]

Hey, at least you only have one City of Scum story you haven't finished. I have four - and none of them are even among the five most recent stories I've worked on.

One city of scum story, and about 5 other WIPs I need to work on.

 

[StillStunned]

One city of scum story, and about 5 other WIPs I need to work on.

Besides my City of Scum stories, and the other five I mentioned, I have another eight that are also still active.

 

[ShelbyDawn57]

I think I'm getting the feel of this story...

---

“Kit, run to the crone for some teas.” Casandra screamed up the stairs. “Abby’s late again.”

“In a minute.” I shouted back. My mother had just entertained an overly aggressive client, and it was my job to clean up the mess while she used her magic to heal before her next one arrived.

Blood and assorted bodily fluids were the norm at The Crimson Veil. I'd been scrubbing floors and washing sheets that decent people would burn since I was old enough to walk. It was that or join my mother and the other girls 'entertaining guests' and my mother would have none of that. She was convinced I was destined for better things. Yeah right. It was just a matter of time before Casandra sold my virginity to some stranger with enough coin to pay the price. One last swipe of the rag across the still filthy floor and I wrung the disgusting mess into my bucket.

“Curse you, you fucking cunt!” The poor sot sleeping in the alley under my mother’s room screamed as I dumped the bucket of gods knew what out the window, drenching him. I probably did him a favor. We weren’t so far from the bottoms that a stray ghoul was out of the question. I'd heard the screams outside my window more than once.

 

[PennyThompson]

A little outside my comfort zone, but I can't resist a challenge

---

Mama Hobble had never been the prettiest woman. Her features a little too hard, nose a little too crooked. A ragged scar on her cheek from when her mother cut her for hiding a loaf of stolen bread.

But she'd been in the business since the day she'd come of age, deciding it was better to sell it than to have it taken from her at knifepoint. She'd started as a ten-copper street whore, the kind that haunted the dockside alleys like selkies, tempting the pent-up sailors with cheap quim or mouth or palm.

She'd gotten lucky one night when a ship's captain had taken a liking to her willful gaze and sharp tongue, and offered her an exclusive contract for the week he was in port. She'd drained him of both seed and coin, enough "seed money" to rent a bed in one of the less-filthy taverns on Tinker's Row.

There she'd been able to keep herself clean and smelling nice enough to attract a finer clientele, the kind that would pay silver instead of copper. Soon realizing the value of information and knowledge, she kept her eyes and ears open, asking probing questions in her client's afterglow, playing the role of dutiful student. Some men even got hard enough to buy a second bounce, excited by the attention. She'd picked up some letters and a couple of pidgin languages, expanding her customer base to the knife-ears that sometimes slunk into town to trade their herbs and silks for alcohol and steel.

Their cocks were long and thin, their breath cool and piney, their unnerving eyes glittering in the dark of her tiny room. But they came just like any Man, and they paid more than they should. She knew the particular dangers of breeding with them, was always careful about her moon tide, always had a stash of blood tea on hand if it became necessary.

She developed a reputation as a whore with an open mind and open legs, attracting clients that most women would turn away. Knife-ears, yes. But also the mountain folk who worked the forges, with their thick stubby members and their tangled beards. She even welcomed the beastmen who sometimes served as bodyguards or mercenaries, too large for her to fuck, but satisfied with her hands and tongue when needs must.

Eventually she reached two score years, too old for whoring. But she had fucked prodigiously and lived frugally, and found herself sitting on a sizable pot of gold nobles. Enough to buy out the tavernkeeper, a toothless old man who was eager to liquidate his meager assets and live out his last few years in a Benevolent Home at the foot of Nob Hill.

She took over the tavern and transitioned from whore to madam, bringing in girls that reminded her of her past. Girls who were sharp and hungry, but who knew their value. Girls who had a spark of will or curiosity, who looked up from the gutters and cobblestones and gazed sometimes at the stars.

She kept them clean and safe, made sure they were paid fairly for their work, dealt roughly with rough tricks. She earned her name when a john wanted to bugger one of the new girls and wouldn't take "No," for an answer. She broke his knees with a wooden bung hammer, and made him pay the girl thrice for her trouble before letting him crawl out of her establishment.

She kept a mental ledger of her girls, tracking their moon tides, counting their earnings, watching for the ones with special talents. Nutmeg, who could produce a flame by pricking her finger with a knife. Sweet Mim, who seemed to cast a glamer on men by sitting in their lap and whispering in their ear. Ruby, a stunted half-breed who walked with a crutch but knew when any man was lying.

Mama Hobble kept a ledger, and cultivated talent. Because Mama Hobble had a plan.

 

[StillStunned]

A little outside my comfort zone, but I can't resist a challenge

Love it! Are you going to turn it into a complete story?

 

[PennyThompson]

Love it! Are you going to turn it into a complete story?

I'll let it marinate and see if anything boils up... Writing Grimdark is fun but really hard for me

Plus I'm not sure what Mama Hobble's plan actually consists of... A heist? An assassination? Revenge? Becoming Mayor?

And I don't know how you feel about including some non-human races in your setting?

 

[DraegonDaddy]

Ok, don't have a name for this one yet but:

Back on Low Street, he saw the sign for the Neckless Nag down the street at the edge of his vision through the morning mist. Not that he had the money to get a drink, no matter how much he wanted one. Eiristos had two copper commons left, and he needed to make that stretch. After the failed expedition to the half buried temple in the swamps, it was all he had left.

His party was dead, ripped apart by whatever that thing was. It wasn't a ghoul; it was too inhuman. A creature of almost skeletal thinness, pale skin, lambent eyes, and claws that ripped through chain-mail like it was a thin, threadbare cloth. Eiristos’ own leathers had been destroyed in the battle, along with his party, his weapons, their supplies, everything. Only falling through that false wall had saved him.

Two coppers and the strange curved sword he had found, that was all that remained. The creature had looked unlike any beast, ghoul, or demon he had ever seen. His one encounter with the Widow Queen when he had accepted the contract from the Waterfront Widows had burned the appearance of an actual demon into his mind and memory.

“You look like the dead.”

Eiristos turned around to see the speaker. She was dressed in the dark cloak and hardened, darkly dyed leathers of the Widows. “If it wasn't for luck, I would be dead.”

She looked him up and down. He was sure he was a sight with ripped and bloodied rags being all that remained of his clothing. The rag wrapped bundle holding the strange sword he found the only intact thing he had besides his dagger.
She spoke crisply, “follow me,” and began walking at a brisk pace down Low Street towards the waterfront. Eiristos followed as quickly as he could, grunting from the pain of his barely healed injuries. After a few minutes she turned into a building with a sign of a beehive. The Beekeeper Inn, he knew the place. It was almost too upscale for its location near the end of Low Street. He would normally avoid this place to conserve what little coin he had. His guide walked in through the well lit front room and straight towards the innkeeper polishing dust off of the bottles behind the long bar. She spoke to the innkeeper quickly, with hushed words, and slid something across the bar towards him. He handed her two bottles from the top shelf and two flagons.

She turned around to face Eiristos, “come with me.” Without waiting for a response she headed for the stairs at the side of the room. He followed her, still grunting from the pain he felt, that was more and more becoming the only thing he was conscious of. He made it one third of the way up the stairs behind her before his vision darkened and he felt the sharp pain of the wooden stairs against the side of his head.

Every inch of his body ached, as he blinked his eyes trying to will them to focus. Slowly his vision cleared, and he saw the woman who had led him here sitting in a chair facing him. He felt the softness of a bed underneath him, but without the familiar scratch of straw. A thick quilted woolen blanket covered him. Raising it, he saw he was naked underneath and his wounds were freshly bandaged. The woman got up from her seat and filled a flagon from one of the bottles. She had removed her cloak and leathers and was now only wearing a thin shift and what looked like men's hose, so he could get a good look at her. She was petite with only modest curves but still athletic like an acrobat. The dark skin he had seen under her cloak's hood made her form visible under her thin shift. He felt his body responding to her appearance despite the pain. She cast a quick glance at the rising blanket.

“Just because I made myself comfortable while waiting for you to wake up does not mean you get to do anything with me. Now drink and I'll have your report for the Widow.” Her waist length, dark, thin braids shook as she handed him the flagon.

Eiristos took a sip from the flagon, the liquid was dry like an expensive wine tasting slightly of honey but without the sweetness. It felt cool going down his parched throat, but hit his empty stomach like a rock. He groaned and clutched at his stomach with his free hand.

“Report first, and then I'll have some food brought up.” She sat back down in the chair as she spoke, her open legs revealing she was wearing nothing but the shift and hose which apparently only rose to her mid thigh.

Eiristos shook his head, to clear his thoughts, letting the pain of movement distract him from the view of her body. “We went to the temple ruins as directed. The temple connects to a cave system under the swamp, but the caverns are dry. We were attacked by a creature that I've never even heard of before. It was human in shape but thin, spindly, with grayish-white skin, and eyes that glowed whenever light hit them like a cat's. Our weapons were useless against it, and its claws tore through metal like it was cloth. What is this you gave me?”

She crossed her legs finally blocking the view up her shift. “Mead, Caeren makes it here, that's why he calls the place The Beekeeper. If this creature was so powerful how did you survive?”

Eiristos grunted from another throb of pain and took a long swallow of mead before answering. “Luck. During the fight I fell through a false wall, that's where I found that.” He gestured at the bundle on the table beside the chair the woman was sitting on. “By the time I found my way back, everyone was dead, all three of them. The witch, my brother, and the hunter we hired, all dead. Everything we had brought with us was completely torn to shreds. I could barely tend my own wounds and make it back here. Their bodies remain where they fell. I didn't have the strength left to burn or bury them.” He took another long drink of mead as he finished, he felt the drink beginning to go to his head past his empty stomach. Gods, looking at her in such little and thin clothing was its own form of torture. He wanted to taste that dark brown skin and feel the curves of her petite but athletic body against his own. But she was one of the Waterfront Widows, she had probably killed more men than he could easily count, and she worked for a literal demon. Since he had failed to fulfill the contract, she held his life in her hands.

She laughed at him, “Down boy, you've done nothing to earn that type of reward.” She sipped from her own flagon before continuing, “now, tell me about what you found.”

“It's an oddly shaped sword, kind of like the old sickle swords of the southern regions but the curves aren't as pronounced. It's magical, but I wasn’t able to tell anything specific.”

There was a knock on the room door as he finished speaking. The woman got up and opened it. A servant woman entered with a tray of food that she set on the table, she was followed by a second woman carrying a steaming basin of water and several clean cloths draped over her arm. The serving women deposited their burdens and then quickly left. The dark-haired woman latched the door behind them and then brought the tray of food over to the bed. A thick round loaf of bread with the center cut out and filled with a dark meaty stew. Eiristos’ stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and he felt clearly that it had been days since he had eaten.

“You eat while I bathe and then I'll take the item and your report to the Widow. You will stay in this room until I return with her decision.” She pulled the thin shift over her head revealing fuller breasts than her petite build implied. Eiristos' eyes were drawn to her nipples, stiff from the chill of the room, and surrounded by dark areolas. He looked away and down at his stew before she could notice him staring. It was torture, that's what it was, her standing naked before him rubbing her flawless dark skin with a cloth dipped in the steaming water. His stomach rumbled again, and taking up the wrought spoon, he focused on the stew and bread in front of him, washing down mouthfuls with swallows of the dry mead.

“How many contracts have you completed for us?” She asked.

Eiristos tried to keep his eyes down on the food, and not focus on her slowly rubbing her breasts with the cloth, or the dark patch of well trimmed hair between her legs, or the glistening droplets of water on her shapely thighs, as she continued to clean herself languorously. He answered, speaking around bites of food, “three. This contract was the fourth the Waterfront Widows have given me.”

She walked over to the bed and put her hand on his chest, before lightly drawing a finger down along his body from the base of his throat to just above his public hair, pushing the tray of food back from him as she did so.
“And this time you failed. Your companions are dead, and you have almost nothing to show for it.” She grabbed his manhood and squeezed, causing Eiristos to gasp with the burst of pain. The woman turned and walked back to the basin, giving him a view of her swaying, well-formed buttocks. She grabbed another cloth and began quickly drying herself.

“You are to stay in this room, your meals will be brought to you. You are to have no visitors. No women, no men. You will stay here until I or the Widow Queen return once she has decided your fate. Caeren has been our associate for a long time and will follow the instructions I have given him to keep you here behind locked doors.”

At this point she was dressed and reattaching her leathers over her shift and hose. Eiristos felt himself still swollen, stiff, from her torturing him with the view of her naked body just moments ago. He pushed the now empty tray of food away and sat up straighter in the bed. “Could I at least have the name of my captor?”

She attached her cloak with a metal pin, and walked back over to the bed, reaching below the blanket to grab his throbbing cock again. “You don't need my name, and for now this,” she squeezed his shaft forcefully again, “and you belong to me and the Widow Queen.”

 

[StillStunned]

And I don't know how you feel about including some non-human races in your setting?

I think I mentioned upthread somewhere, the premise is "Yes, and..." Normally I'm against demihumans like elves and dwarves in grimdark sword & sorcery, but I think they work as long as you bring believable attitudes. Life is shit for everyone, so they'll take out their resentment on everyone who's different. So elves and dwarves might be tolerated if they bring something useful, but I expect there'd be a lot of bigotry.

On the plus side: plenty of room for plots!

 

[StillStunned]

Ok, don't have a name for this one yet but:

You'll have to make sure you have a copy of that, before the mods delete it. Short snippets are allowed, but chunks of text this long are a pretty firm no-no.

I'll try and read it before then.

 

[ShelbyDawn57]

I think I mentioned upthread somewhere, the premise is "Yes, and..." Normally I'm against demihumans like elves and dwarves in grimdark sword & sorcery, but I think they work as long as you bring believable attitudes. Life is shit for everyone, so they'll take out their resentment on everyone who's different. So elves and dwarves might be tolerated if they bring something useful, but I expect there'd be a lot of bigotry.

On the plus side: plenty of room for plots!

For those lucky enough to be buried...

 

[StillStunned]

For those lucky enough to be buried...

One of my drafts has a character being poisoned and left for the ghouls. It's left unclear whether they'll turn him, or eat him alive...

 

[DraegonDaddy]

You'll have to make sure you have a copy of that, before the mods delete it. Short snippets are allowed, but chunks of text this long are a pretty firm no-no.

I'll try and read it before then.

That's basically the opening scene to a piece I'm over 5000 words into.

 

[DraegonDaddy]

Although mine is a straight up dungeon crawl.

 

[PennyThompson]

I think I mentioned upthread somewhere, the premise is "Yes, and..." Normally I'm against demihumans like elves and dwarves in grimdark sword & sorcery, but I think they work as long as you bring believable attitudes. Life is shit for everyone, so they'll take out their resentment on everyone who's different. So elves and dwarves might be tolerated if they bring something useful, but I expect there'd be a lot of bigotry.

On the plus side: plenty of room for plots!

It was just a fun little aside, the elves and dwarves wouldn't strictly be necessary to the story if I decide to go anywhere with it

 

[ShelbyDawn57]

One of my drafts has a character being poisoned and left for the ghouls. It's left unclear whether they'll turn him, or eat him alive...

I'm just glad that, so far, ghouls don't seem to be fast enough or interested enough to catch cats.

 

[DraegonDaddy]

I'm just glad that, so far, ghouls don't seem to be fast enough or interested enough to catch cats.

Wait until I introduce the "pale walkers."

 

[StillStunned]

I'm just glad that, so far, ghouls don't seem to be fast enough or interested enough to catch cats.

I mention in "Rulk the Rat" that you have to be really careless or unlucky to be caught. I think perhaps the biggest problem would be that there are more and more of them every time they turn a victim, so there's more risk of being caught between two packs.

 

[ShelbyDawn57]

Wait until I introduce the "pale walkers."

Not worried. My MCs human form has a Valyrian Steel dagger.

 

[DraegonDaddy]

Not worried. My MCs human form has a Valyrian Steel dagger.

Wicked Evil Grin

 

[StillStunned]

I'm rereading William Gibson's Neuromancer, and you know what? The whole first part, in Chiba, is how I image the City. Well, apart from the sci-fi/fantasy differences.

The same frantic hustling, the same backstabbing, the same hopelessness.

 

[ShelbyDawn57]

Question for the denizens of 'The City': Are righteous vengeance stories acceptable?
Thinking metaphorically boy meets girl, boy loses girl and justifiably kicks the shit out of the guy that took her only to piss his big brothers.

 

[StillStunned]

Sure! As long as there's an edge of nastiness about it. Or at least gritty realism.

My vision for the City is that it's an awful place that shapes the people. Poverty and hopelessness make people do awful things, but they might also do nice things. I mean, even Rulk fed the one-eyed rat.

 

[StillStunned]

City of Scum is official!

 

[ShelbyDawn57]

Pretty sure I've settled on the opening for my "Sex in The City(of Scum)" story; working title, "Here Kitty kitty."
Thought I'd share...

---
What does it say about life in The City that I spent more time as a cat than I did as a human? At its most basic, people were just nicer to cats. I mean, as a cat, the fish mongers down the wharf tossed me scraps. As a girl, they expected favors and gave treats I found far less appetizing.

Sure, those favors were available - for a price. I saved them for more dire needs; things like a warm bed when winter storms blew through or enough coin to eat for more than a day. I saved them for the times when getting the information I needed required an intimacy only a human pussy could provide.

Today wasn’t one of those days. At least not yet.