Elderharth district. October 12, 1879 - 7:42 am
The first light of day seeped into the city. It was a feeble glow, a mere whisper of the sun's power, as if it had been diluted by the fog's oppressive embrace.
Lucius Silvis sat on an old kitchen chair, his legs protesting softly with each shift of his weight, the chair had seen better days. Its wooden frame had been patched with iron strips, and the cushion was a faded memory of a once rich fabric. The stitches had come loose, revealing the yellowed stuffing beneath. The room was chilly despite the small, cast-iron stove in the corner that crackled and hissed, throwing off waves of warmth that danced across the cold stone floor.
On the table before him was a steaming cup of tea, the kind that was so dark it looked like it had been brewed from the shadows themselves. It smelled faintly bitter, a bitterness that seemed to match the mood that had settled upon the room like a dense fog.
The bread and cheese beside it were a stark contrast to the luxurious aroma of the tea. The bread was half-baked, as if it had been plucked from the oven too soon, its crust barely formed. The cheese sat atop it, a thick, greasy slab that sweated a clear liquid that threatened to escape the bread's embrace.
"A king's breakfast," Lucius thought dryly, "when the king lives in a shabby old building and occasionally fights with dark creatures."
A soft meow cut through the silence, and Lucius' eyes flickered towards the windowsill. A cat sat there, long and sinewy with fur as black as the darkest corner of the night. Its eyes, one a deep amber that pierced the gloom, the other milky-white, seemingly blind.
"Morgana," he said, and a small smile flitted across his lips, the only one that morning. The cat stretched, arching its back and revealing a flash of its claws, which looked like they had been dipped in ink. She jumped gracefully to the floor and padded over to him, rubbing her head against his leg.
Morgana was a stray that had found its way to Lucius' doorstep one stormy night, and she had never left.
Lucius pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the stone floor. His eyes lingered on the half-eaten breakfast before he turned away, his stomach growling in protest. With a shrug, he took a deep breath and approached the cupboard, its paint chipped and faded. The wood was cold to the touch, as if the warmth of the room had been unable to penetrate its aged surface. He pulled out a ceramic bowl that bore the faded image of a fish, leaping out of the water in a futile bid for freedom. The irony wasn't lost on him.
On the countertop, a knife lay, its blade gleaming in the candlelight. With a practiced ease, he sliced off small pieces of dried fish, the aroma of the sea and long-forgotten sunsets briefly filling the room. The fish had been a gift from a merchant who had claimed they were the finest from the distant waters.
He filled the ceramic bowl with the small, brittle pieces, the clinking sound echoing through the apartment. Morgana's eyes followed his every movement, her tail flicking with anticipation. As he approached her, the cat's body tensed, her eyes narrowed into slits, watching him with a mix of curiosity and caution.
"Don't worry, you'll always get something to eat on time," he mumbled, placing the bowl down gently. "I envy you. You don't have to answer to anyone, you just meow and get what you want."
Morgana replied with a quiet Rrrrrp and began to eat.
....
8:16 am, Elderharth district.
It wasn't far to his landlord's house, unfortunately. That meant Lucius had no excuse not to show up in person. He left the apartment, which he cynically referred to as a 'sanctuary', and stepped back out into the early, damp morning haze.
The building loomed over him like a beige and gray sentinel of despair. It had been constructed hastily, during a time when the city had expanded too quickly and carelessly. The windows were a sad mimicry of those found in the grand houses of the nobility, but these were smaller, the glass foggy with age and neglect. The curtains that hung from them were a garish mix of colors that clashed with the dullness of the building's façade, as if someone had thrown a handful of paint at a canvas and hoped for a masterpiece.
Mr. Borvan Huelder's apartment was on the second floor. The stairs were narrow and steep, the banister worn down to almost nothing. The walls were papered with a floral pattern that had faded to a sickly gray-green. It was a color that seemed to suck the very life out of the light that tried to reach it, leaving the stairwell in perpetual twilight.
As Lucius climbed, the smell of stale cigar smoke grew stronger. It was a scent that seemed to cling to the very fabric of the building, a silent testament to the landlord's favorite pastime. With each step, the anticipation grew, the tension in his shoulders tightening like a coiled spring.
Finally, he reached the second floor and approached the door with the number 2B etched into the peeling paint. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the encounter, and rapped his knuckles against the wood. The sound was muffled, absorbed by the layers of dust and grime that had settled on its surface.
Mr. Borvan Huelder, the landlord, opened the door with the slimy precision of a man who knew someone was late.
"Ah, Mr. Silvis," he said with a smile that showed more teeth than charm. "Yesterday would have been the payment date. Again." His eyes, small and beady, glinted with the malicious delight.
Without a word, Lucius reached into the pocket of his vest and slowly pulled out the envelope. The paper was thick and coarse, the weight of the 750 Solmarcs inside giving it a satisfying heft. He extended his hand, the envelope held between two long fingers, and offered it to Mr. Huelder.
"And again I pay on time... well, almost, so that this gelatinous man can afford a new collar, which I hope is too tight for him."
The landlord's eyes widened, greed overtaking his earlier delight. His hand shot out, snatching the envelope away with a gleeful cackle. He tore it open with the enthusiasm of a child on Solstice morning, revealing the three banknotes nestled within. The purple 500 Solmarcs note was crisp and new, a stark contrast to the yellowed walls and the stale air of the hallway. The yellow 200 Solmarcs note looked slightly less pristine, as if it had seen some use but was still eager to be of service. Lastly, the orange 50 Solmarcs note was a sad reminder of the time when such a sum had been worth more than the paper it was printed on.
"Ah, yes," Mr. Huelder murmured to himself as he counted the money with a meticulousness that suggested he was afraid it might vanish before his eyes. "But as you know, Mr. Silvis, according to the contract, I would have to charge you a penalty fee of 10 percent for your tardiness."
"I've heard that in some places people are simply taken by the fog when they default on their rent," Lucius said dryly as he counted the rest of the money. "Would be more efficient than you, Borvan."
A nervous twitch crossed Huelder's face, his eyes flitting to the fog outside the window for a brief second before he chuckled, the sound grating against the stillness of the stairwell. "Fog monsters are just children's tales, Mr. Silvis," he said, taking the money with a tremor in his hand.
Lucius raised an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving Huelder's. "You should be grateful for that," he murmured, his voice a cold whisper. "For if they were real, I suspect you'd be their first meal."
With a sigh, Lucius produced another 75 solmarcs, each note a small wound to his pride. The landlord's eyes lit up, the greed in them as palpable as the fog outside.
"There," Lucius said, handing over the additional Solmarcs notes. His smile was a tight, grim thing that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Now we're even."
Without another word, Lucius left the house.
....