by Justin Wayne
Chapter One: “Allow me to introduce myself”
Rusk’s marketplace was booming with business that morning. The weather was fair and the chill at bay, allowing the people of the quickly expanding trading town a reprieve in which to gather supplies for the fast approaching winter months. So far north as they were, the cold season lasted twice as long as the warm and twice as harsh. It was not uncommon for people to die during the blizzards or move away just before and after they hit. However, those used to it, such as the Northern Dwarves and Bear Tribe of Warriors, made the most of the time to prepare and survive the grueling months to come.
In fact, they relished it. To them, it was a matter of pride and natural selection. Those who remained and had been there the longest proved themselves strong and worthy of business, and as such, the Nordic men and dwarves with the most ancient lines and homes held the power within the town.
Divided into two main factions, Rusk was ran by the dwarf-backed Froststone Clan; with control of the mines and smithing, meanwhile the Warrior-fueled Heavywinter Clan maintained a steady lumberjacking operation so that the town always had enough wood to keep their homes and business running, without depleting their forests, and the general goods stores ran from their human cousins to the west who brought them supplies in bulk for a discounted price. Under their combined control Rusk ran smoothly and efficiently with only the occasional hiccup when one group considered a new business setup by the other to overstep their boundaries. Luckily, the arguments never lead to anything more severe, with the last brawl having been over a generation ago and ending in a draw.
Those not within the factions were able to live comfortably under their influence without having to commit to anything more than non-member prices. However, this did lead to the occasional raising of prices meant to force them into joining. Yet there were those who resisted and found other ways of getting by..
“Stop, thief!” the burly shop owner roared over the bustle of the crowd. He couldn’t leave his stall alone, especially on such a busy day, and cursed as he watched the hobbit disappear into the crowd, easily evading the guard. “That damn, man-child had better hope he never crosses paths with me again! That was my most prized possession.” he told the guard who was investigating the report.
“And what exactly was it he took?”
The shop owner stared into his eyes with a look of hate. “The dagger they used to kill the last dark elf in this town a hundred years ago.”
