Anima et Forma

Episode 23 - Rosati's Ruin

The current political apparatus of the West Duchies represents the hydra: a four-headed dragon. Cutting off one head multiplies into smaller provincial territories governed by counts, viscounts, barons, governors, and mayors who are often voted into power by popular opinion. Every province operates under unique laws and customs. It is chaos.

The beauty of our Kingdom is not only the simple elegance of our political apparatus but the heritage we share as prariens, and children of Alexander.

—High Lord Simon Forester, of Eastmarch, "My Alexandrian Heritage." 1609 A.D.

"5 circlings?" Roderick retracted his hand. "For a loaf of bread?"

"You heard me." The little old woman dug her right heel into the dirt. She stood beside a trade stall with rotting vegetables and a few sacks of flour. Frazzled gray hair rose from a wrinkled forehead. One of three merchants left in the town square of Berani, the old woman looked as disheveled as her counterparts: a man wearing a torn jacket and toeless boots peddling bows, arrows, and broomsticks, and an even older lady, well-groomed, wearing a blue dress, sitting in the back of her wagon stacked with firewood.

"I don't have five silvers." Roderick stuffed a single circling into his coin purse, then tucked both thumbs beneath his belt.

The vendor's face changed from a mean scowl to one of teary-eyed desperation. "Would you like an onion?" She plucked a half-black bulb from her stall. "One-half is still good! Chop it up and put it in a stew. Only one silver circling for an onion."

"You might sell something if it wasn't so expensive," Roderick said. "I know food is scarce, but money is, too." His eyes scanned a toppled brick building turned to ruin. The gleaming iron ball of a dwarven mortar lay embedded in the rubble a few feet from where he stood. "People are starving."

"You weren't here when Count Constantine and Count Bascuano fought," the old woman said. Her shoulders slumped despite a proud chin and wrinkled nose rising high in the air. "I was. My grandsons died volunteering as pack mules for Bascuano's train." The old vendor pointed a crooked finger across the open plaza at a two-story building with a collapsed roof. "I was born in that house. Married my husband right there." She pointed at the center of the square. "People are starving." She laughed. "I give away everything I can spare. What little I keep for myself isn't enough to pay my taxes. What would you have me do?"

Roderick withdrew his thumbs and walked to the vendor's stall, picking through her selection. "I've seen plenty of refugees. Can't say I blame you for staying where there are familiar faces." Roderick plucked up a spotted potato, but its hair-like growths dissuaded him.

"It's a miracle I can return home each evening," she said. "Constantine nearly destroyed our town, but Duke Ambrose will make it right. He's a good man. The Duke was going to build a school here. I was thinking about sending my grandsons." Gray eyes grew distant. She blinked several times before refocusing and walking around her stall, standing opposite Roderick. "Can you imagine a school out here in Berani?"

"The Castellians have public schools," Roderick said. "It's not impossible."

"Ambrose is the type of man who does what he says he's going to do." The woman crossed her arms and looked rather pleased.

Roderick stepped away from the stall. His stomach growled. I need money and food. He looked around the desolate town square. The other two vendors stood by their wares, staring at the only customer in sight—him. "Is there any work to be had? Rebuilding or handiwork?"