Tales Of Grimea by Andrew Mowere Page A

breathing in order to keep
himself from gagging. His sense of smell was better developed than
that of others, but such a bliss when hunting could easily turn
into a curse in Qir. He tightened his hold upon his Worg and kept
his other hand close to his waist, where he kept both his old
broadsword and money pouch. Pickpockets were a dime a dozen here,
and most were desperate enough to risk death for a few meals’
worth. Such things happened when the main available occupation was
begging. Either that, or join Mikhlab, if you don’t mind
underground organizations.
    Hwosh, luckily, had just barely escaped the
fate of these hollow eyed children in rags he saw all around. Not
being the religious type, he thanked old man Salim in his heart
instead, then made his way towards a well-known house in the heart
of Qir, ignoring the ravaged houses and people sitting aimlessly in
the middle of trash filled streets, leaning against walls and
waiting for something to change. Then the trash began to disappear,
and then the dead look in people’s eyes.
    Slowly but surely, as Hwosh made his way
towards his destination, the living standards began to change until
he entered an area that was almost middle class in nature. It was a
block not more than twenty houses in length and width, but it was
reminiscent of Themra: A magical oasis in the middle of a desert.
Children played in the streets, some sitting at benches and
teaching each other their letters, and shy Lorian lover sat next to
each other and talked in a small garden with a slowly trickling
fountain as well as vine flowers clutching a high white square
pattern fence. Not a one of them even held hands, yet Hwosh could
tell that they were lovers from the intense passion apparent in
their eyes. Such was the way of easterners, he thought. Starting to
tire again from carrying his prey for so long, the warrior moved
towards his quarry with more haste than was absolutely
necessary.
    The house he went to stuck out against the
others here like a sore thumb. Whereas this entire block of houses
was renovated and repaired often, this one houses still seemed
tired, if in acceptable shape: It still held on to old origins of
lay walls, a faded wooden front portal, and an overall shabby
quality of workmanship. Hwosh thought the place reflected its owner
and his intentions quite well. The man knocked the door once. After
a few seconds, he tried again, feeling slightly less patient. When
his third knock went unanswered, Hwosh Ru’ub sighed, looking
towards the sun in exasperation. Yeah, it’s about time for
that . Finding the door unlocked, he went inside.
    The small clay house was comprised of two
chambers, and Hwosh found himself in the living room after ducking
his head under the door top. Despite this room being scantily
furnished, it was still in better shape than uncle Salim’s private
quarters. Here, there were a few sturdy chairs, a few rugs covering
the dusty floor here and there, as well as a well-made table. That
pure white table was the only finely crafted thing in the whole
house, Hwosh knew. It was a puzzling thing to many of Salim’s
guests, but Hwosh had once heard the man say that a business man
needed a reliable place to sign contracts. Besides, the thing was a
gift from his brother.
    Sure enough, Master Salim was praying in a
corner of the room silently. Hwosh took a few seconds to observe
the man, and determined that he was about halfway done. A couple of
minutes, then, considering that the old bald man must have heard
him come in. Old man Salim never put off his prayers, even when in
the company of merchants or councilmen, but he was respectful
enough to hurry up if someone was waiting on him. The warrior also
noticed a pot bubbling in the corner over a low fire. Wisps of
smoke and vapour flitted off the pot and were swept off from the
ventilation holes directly above. That hole was bigger than the
others, which were tiny and ran along one of the building’s walls,
both at the