𝙃𝙄𝙎 𝘽𝙐𝙏𝙇𝙀𝙍 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙊𝙍𝙄𝙂𝙄𝙉𝙎 𝙊𝙁 𝘼 𝘿𝙀𝙈𝙊𝙉

Chapter 20: Sunday, September 2, 1666

CHAPTER 20 - "SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1666"

The city was quiet on this Sunday night just after the midnight hour as most of its inhabitants were sleeping in the city of London.

But social cogs still inhabited the local pubs and inns and there were prostitutes walking the lined streets, despite a devastating prior year dealing with the outbreak of the bubonic plaque. Last year, 1665, had been known as the "Plaque Year" where a great deal of people had died and were still dying by an illness brought on by filthy conditions in London streets and other diseases carried by rodents and other animals.

With his powers, Damascus could instantly cure the entire city with a whisk of a hand and completely eliminate all plague everywhere, but it was not his place to do so. And Morning Star would certainly not be pleased if he did so. He was a demon, and human decrepitation brought on this plaque. It was their doing, their fault - so let them deal with the consequences. And besides, it provided more souls for Morning Star, and there were more than enough sinners in this city to fill a thousand large caldrons for him to ingest, scorn, and watch suffer for all eternality.

But not all Londoners were bad, they only made bad choices based on the available options they were given. People had to live, but by doing what they wished - this is how the plague started. Narrow alleyways were garbage dumps and when it rained, streets filled with filth, and washed into the River Themes, polluting drinking water. Rats, feral cats and dogs, even the homeless, filled the streets, redistributing diseases to others, carrying flees that jumped onto people, or airborne contaminates, infecting them.

And then were was the aristocracy who shunned the local population and lived in luxury in the country beyond the slum suburbs, caring nothing for city dwellers, believing them were beneath them. The wealthy wished to live at a convenient distance from the traffic-clogged city. And then there was constant introduction of immigrants, who had come to London for a better life, but were then shunned themselves.

And in a way, Damascus felt sorry for them. Not only for their continuous suffering, but for their continuous civil wars, and how, no matter the outcome, humans never learned. With every generation, it seemed they were doomed to repeat the same mistakes without any chance at reprieve. And these people were the descendants, immigrants who had spread out, of his once proud Roman heritage.

But he was not here to place judgment on them. He was in the city on another matter and an issue of great importance. He was on a mission for Morning Star himself.

He watched as a tall man in dark clothes and a hooded cloak entered a local bakery across the alleyway on Pudding Lane Damascus stood in. He hid in the shadows so not to be seen, but he could cloak himself invisible if he wished using his powers. But if he did so, then others of his kind would notice him who were also in the human world, sensing his energy, blowing his cover, and he wished to remain hidden naturally.

The bakery belonged to a Mr. Thomas Farriner, a very renown baker. He was a smaller man from the average height citizen with a stoutish body and had white hair. He was in his mid-fifties.

Damascus didn't know Farriner personally, only be reputation. And people he spoke to spoke of him highly and they claimed he was the best baker in all of London, everyone buying their sweets and cakes from him. He was also a very highly respected philanthropist in his own rite and often gave to charities to help the homeless and local orphanages. But Damascus could sense a sadness engulfed around his bakery, for Ferrier had no family to speak of. He lived alone and baked alone, employing no one. Baking was his entire life. And it was rumored that he baked with "love", so everything he made was extra delicious.