IMPORTANT NOTE: though not going into detail for obvious reasons, this fanfic will relate to a wide range of questionable activities easily imaginable in the world of Kenshi (which is already largely intended for mature audiences), and may be found unsettling by more sensible people. Please keep it in mind as you read on; should themes such as violence, drinking, gambling or anything usually restricted or possibly forbidden by law disturb you, do NOT continue reading. As this account is new, sending a private message to check whether it is acceptable or not with a moderator is impossible for the time being, however the vagueness is intended - minors may still read, after all. Do not expect explicite depictions.
Please remember to act responsibly and in accordance with local law, this is IN NO WAY an endorsement of similar activities in real life - merely a fan fiction about a virtual world.
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Shem. In a setting of dunes reddened by the rich veins of iron lying around, hiding several lakes referred to by the educated as "oases", strong winds turn into occasional sandstorms redefining the lay of the land constantly and covering up tracks of wandering travellers, be they bandits, downtrodden drifters, upstanding citizens or wild animals - the few lines telling them apart from one another being usually blurred, as the local fauna often walks on two legs rather than four, and behaves no better.
In such an exception to the ordinary desertic landscapes spread across the world, an ever-growing community found its place and is now firmly rooted. Like a shamely untold, yet poorly kept secret, this is where people of all walks of life come and gather for a night of entertainment by the side of they who mastered their business: those who came to be known as the Leisure Men of the Lakes.
Out of reach of any major power, even nearby swamp gangs never managed to take over the place, after realizing too late how valuable an asset it could be. Now that this community is well-protected behind its walls constantly beaten by sand, such a prospect only becomes even less feasible as their goons also gather there to enjoy their nights, thanks to countless practices that can be best described as debauchery - through refined means, obviously.
Without any laws but those of the locals, nearly everything is on sale. No booze is forbidden at bars; musicians regale your ears with odes of not-so-foreign lands; comedians incarnate well-known figures in derision; caravaneers deal in rumors of trade opportunities
and hidden treasures while guests feast at the tables; gamblers bet their rags on one last throw of dice; modest workers admire a sight they may not behold for the coming decade or two; nomads learn of a new, delectable way of life; and when the darkest hour of the day is on, any courtesan of your liking may entertain your fetishes.
It is precisely after dusk that the area takes on a completely different appearance. Under a starry sky, bright moons shining high, it is on days when no sands fill the air and hide the scenery that its beauty can be taken in. The low walls, sufficient to hold at bay the terrifying gutters -or "beak things" as the uneducated call them- allow guests from upper floors to stare at the nearby expanses. To the north, one can see the rocky outcrops where the Holy Nation lies; the foreboding Burning Forest stands tall to the south, which acid rains never reach this area; the odd flora of the ever-humid swamps to the west sometimes escapes its constant cover of mist; and in complete opposition to its daytime activity, the quiet hills of Venge to the east hide wrecks feeding the imagination about a glorious, conflicted past lost to time.
The hue of the sands does not allow much reverberation of light, offering a strong contrast with the most expressive feature of the area: the peaceful, beautiful reflections of moonlight atop the lakes. The streets are no less busier than during daytime - quite the opposite, actually; amongst dim lights, silhouettes of countless people can be perceived by the keen eye, both customers and entertainers walking in and out of all kinds of businesses, the latter representing all sentient races so they can cater to any needs. Still, the vast majority are ordinary humans and without any obvious discrimination to speak of, the core principle here is loyalty to he, who leads this settlement.
Many public faces exist within the Leisure Men of the Lakes, however only few ever saw with their eyes their leader whom they refer to with deference. So rare is it an occurrence to see him that it even turned into a superstition amongst regulars, convincing themselves that this year is going to be filled with luck should they even catch a glimpse of him - the utter truth being much more mundane: most of them are still asleep in the morning or early afternoon after a night of revelry. That makes the early times of the day ideal to conduct business away from prying eyes, unlike most locations.
The Leisure Men have no ordinary name to speak of, but rather cognomen or monikers to identify themselves. The most known leaders embody it well, from the Beguiling Empress overseeing all diplomatical relations and establishments of pleasure to the Roaring Garru, the local "law enforcer" of sorts better known for his fits of violence once he gets rowdy than his efficiency at work. Make no mistake - such an organization thriving in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by bandits and thieves of all sorts, not to mention the lethal fauna of gutters and spiders is by no means a random gathering of rag-tag people. Their real names may be unknown, anybody may find work with them, but none of the overseers, even of low rank, are randomly picked.
Dusk is approaching fast. After a risky, lengthy journey in these sands where no obvious indication tells which way to follow to find this settlement, commonly known to outsiders as the Haven for the Freefolk, a small group of travellers finally perceives in the distance the walls that represent their safety in this area, after cautiously escaping the best they could any bandits or fauna. Despite paying some shifty-looking mercenaries who swore to them they would give them directions which proved useless, these highly-expecting people with pockets barely filled enough to have a little fun heave a sigh of relief once they arrive at the front gate. As anticipation starts to build up, their imagination runs wild, wondering what could they experience in there...
[Fan-fiction] The Leisure Men of the Lakes
- Chapter I: four artisans -
Showing up at the front gate, a group of four men stands in a short queue before the guards. While a small caravan is being inspected, one guard questions them before inviting them to stand aside, as soon as they tell him it's their first time making their way to the "Haven". After a brief wait, the same young figure that beckoned them earlier gathers the people in attendance, and starts his speech:
- "Thank you for your patience. I am known as Swift Gale; since this is your first visit to our settlement, I must warn you of the few rules to be observed during your stay for the well-being of both residents and guests alike, and we will consider you to be aware of them at all times, including on subsequent visits."
Two yawns can already be heard, but the young guard remains unfazed and continues:
- "We expect you to remain civil within our walls, that is to say: no violence, no theft, no harrassing, no kidnapping. All businesses here have a defined activity: an inn is not a pleasure house, and a gambling den is not a place to sell your belongings before the next bet. Our settlement has specialized quarters; take some time to visit the stalls after crossing the gate, and purchase some junk if you want information about which places to visit depending your purse. Know that we do not keep prisoners long; offenders causing trouble for our people will be deported and sold into slavery, whereas small-time thugs, drunkards or junkies and their ilk will be thrown outside, vulnerable to the dangers of the desert. Store owners may have a few extra rules we approved of beforehand; if you cannot read, ask around. Watch out for our little spiders; with that being said, welcome to the Shem Den!"
Disturbed by that last line knowing how lethal even young blood spiders can be, the four men, named Li, Al, Nick and Will, have their only bag and pockets checked before walking into the settlement. The lengthy alley welcoming them begins with low-roofed, sand-covered buildings seemingly full of guards on both sides; most of the alley however is full of shops selling a wide variety of goods, their storefronts lined up with stalls. Besides ample clothes, the main fashion accessory here is worn by almost every local: a turban of various lengths and shapes, some so intricately wrapped it can be called a tagelmust.
Taking on the hint of the young guard at the entrance, Al and Will step up to a stall and spend some time talking with the owner before purchasing some turbans for themselves, while the sun is setting. The two others watch the layout of the area; the alley only has a single street connected to it, halfway to their left where countless animal noises come from, caravaneers leading into and out of it their beasts of burden. The remainder of the alley itself opens up on a large round plaza, lined up with even more stalls and yells coming from merchants; its center is a small pond, one of the several symbols which gave half of the name to the organization. What catches the eye the most is not the merchants themselves, but their colourful stalls which despite the omnipresent sand, lure attention and break the ever-present reddish hue of the area. Coming from the north, they can see four other exits to the plaza, one of them especially overcrowded.
After their short observation, Nick and Li rejoin the two others, picking up the conversation right when it was getting interesting:
- "...you'll be arriving at the merchants' plaza, though at this time of day activity will be dying down. All streets are marked but with 7000 cats to spend for all four of you, only the eastern one going into the modest quarter will be of interest: its businesses are the only ones you can afford with so little! No offense meant, but it takes at least 5000 cats per head to even consider following the crowd to the southwest, where you'll find the entertainment district - the largest, most visited place. Double that amount to be welcome anywhere in there. Anyway, forget the two other streets; to the southeast, you'll find the residential quarter where we live, nothing worth your time, whereas the northwestern is restricted by invitations. It's the real deal, the quarter of debauchery, but guards will shove you away if you do not have one on hand - and that's on a good day, otherwise you're in for a beating!"
Wealth indeed largely determines which way to go in this place. Disappointed at being reminded they're paupers even here, the group heads into the eastern street to the modest quarter, remarking many smaller alleys -corridors, really- branching out from the main artery, too daunting to look any welcoming. Reaching another plaza with a large pond in its center, surrounded by fences behind which many cacti grow, far fewer stalls are in sight and only already closed buildings can be seen. Still following the road east, the ambience starts to shift and finally looks like an entertainment district, as more guards with gloomy faces roam the area, dragging away one drunkard from a shady corridor or another debtor from a gambling den. Sounds of cheering and laughter become audible as they enter a new plaza, once more around a pond of water where several inns welcome them; booking a room for four for the night, the steep cost of 2000 cats is justified by the innkeeper as the "price for safety, if you don't want to be picked up by the Guard as a troublemaker in your sleep, or by shady drifters roaming the alleys"!
Learning from that same cats-hungry innkeeper how to navigate further into the modest quarter, the group finds its way to a bar recommended as "decent, with edible food". As night finally falls and its chill can be felt outside, the area keeps filling up with patrons, each chatting louder than the next around some grub to fill their empty stomachs. The colourful impression from the merchants' plaza is clearly lost in this quarter, but the lights keep attracting customers like moths to a flame, while the sign at the entrance promises a musical show for tonight - as long as a tip is left to the performers. Now aware of the costs and giving up on any lustful intentions for the night, the group seats at a table shared with an odd pair of a shek and a hiver, too busy talking between them to return more than a simple greeting. The bar owner approaches them:
- "So, what will it be tonight? We've just had a fresh shipment of goat meat today, guaranteed free of maggots so far!"
Ordering a round of rice imported from the Swamp with a few slices of goat meat, and enough cactus rum as well as cheap sake to call it an enjoyable night, the group starts to settle in this surprisingly cozy ambience, too dark to notice the questionable stains on the walls or wooden panels (more like, planks salvaged who-knows-where) creating a fake sense of privacy here and there with the next tables. The central stage is visible from everywhere; the music is rather ordinary from these surroundings, as they could listen to something similar from nomadic performers back in Clownsteady where the four of them were still working recently, crafting all sorts of cheap wares such as the clay plates in which their food is served. Still longing for information for their next visit, asking the bar owner, he beckons over someone then yells:
- "Bo, come over here, kiddo! Entertain these guests' curiosity and don't forget your informant fee, will you?"
A scorchlander kid, barely old enough to hold a tray and serve tables, teeters over with a large smile missing several teeth, like any growing kid his age. Sitting at the table with the four artisans, the bar owner returns shortly after with a plate of more rice for the kid before heading to other tables, leaving with a "today's rate is 500 cats for half an hour of information". Visibly hungry, the brat plunges his hand without reserve in his plate, filling his mouth without a care in the world, amusing the shek-hiver pair who fell silent for a brief moment. Knowing the clock to be ticking, Al starts by confirming the estimations he learned earlier with the merchant, hoping for a good surprise - to no avail. Nick, more worried about the guard's warning, refers to the young spiders to which the little one replies:
- "Tha'z us, actually. Grown-ups call us spiders because we know our way through each and every alley, sneak under the many stalls, and the older kids even walk the roofs to visit other quarters. Sometimes merchants just shoo us away or hit us, but many actually ask us for information on their competitors, with info about the full-fledged shops bringing the most cats. Me, I'm too bad at sneaking but I can help Ma' at the bar, she got wounded by a shitty customer and nobody wants to purchase her anymore, but I get to eat almost everyday now!"
Disturbed by hearing a kid referring so crudely to his mother, further talks let the group understand who mostly resides and works in the "modest quarter". Apart from small-time merchants in their shops, most men work the farms or intimidate careless visitors, most women craft cheap wares or sell their own meat where cannibalism is forbidden, and most children are "incidents" from the job in a place where contraceptives do not exist, and where abortion remains either debilitating, either lethal in most cases. Feeling ordinary morals do not mean anything here, the remainder of the time is spent asking recommendable businesses around, covering all range of vices they can think of - to which the kid reveals himself as a surprisingly knowledgeable informant. Then again, such is this settlement. The child now leaving the table, the group keeps drinking slowly, as the noise around lowers much like the lights in the bar; the main performance of the night gets on.
It is in no way however a great show: the group on stage actually performs some storytelling in the nomadic style, retelling tales supposed to feed the imagination. Sadly, it takes no learned amateur to tell the storyteller is trying too hard at sounding epic, ruining the tale of a child born by a river holding a blood clot in his hand, meant to conquer the land. Amidst all the chattering, laughing, and belching in the room, it simply sounds out of place. The musician playing the bone flute makes too many shrill sounds breaking the ambience, whereas the one striking the drums seems bored out of his mind. If anything, the only redeeming feature is the incredible performance made by the throat singer, transporting the audience through echoes reminding distant valleys never seen, whistling like birds flying in imaginative lush forests. After a good hour or so, the show ends with some reserved applause, and comparatively reserved tips.
Leaving the bar, Will is the only one wobbling left and right amongst them, too hammered to show his usual restraint. Keeping him close to them, the remainder of the group walks on towards the establishments of pleasure they longed for, yet cannot afford tonight. With the low lights and thick pastes hiding the wreckles, the rashes and other bruises, it all looks like a land of wonders to the unaccustomed eye, window shopping from afar. If visibility was given attention, clearly, soundproofing isn't the priority in this area. Though their drinks keep them warm in the desert night, fatigue starts hitting them from the lengthy, dangerous walk they did to arrive there; heading thus back to the inn, all four of them go to sleep in beds that definitely have seen their share of customers from the smell.
The next morning meets them with a slight headache. Li, whom awoke first, shakes and wakes up Al and Nick, yelling a single sentence that quickly brings them to their senses:
- "Will has been taken by the Guard last night!"
Showing up at the front gate, a group of four men stands in a short queue before the guards. While a small caravan is being inspected, one guard questions them before inviting them to stand aside, as soon as they tell him it's their first time making their way to the "Haven". After a brief wait, the same young figure that beckoned them earlier gathers the people in attendance, and starts his speech:
- "Thank you for your patience. I am known as Swift Gale; since this is your first visit to our settlement, I must warn you of the few rules to be observed during your stay for the well-being of both residents and guests alike, and we will consider you to be aware of them at all times, including on subsequent visits."
Two yawns can already be heard, but the young guard remains unfazed and continues:
- "We expect you to remain civil within our walls, that is to say: no violence, no theft, no harrassing, no kidnapping. All businesses here have a defined activity: an inn is not a pleasure house, and a gambling den is not a place to sell your belongings before the next bet. Our settlement has specialized quarters; take some time to visit the stalls after crossing the gate, and purchase some junk if you want information about which places to visit depending your purse. Know that we do not keep prisoners long; offenders causing trouble for our people will be deported and sold into slavery, whereas small-time thugs, drunkards or junkies and their ilk will be thrown outside, vulnerable to the dangers of the desert. Store owners may have a few extra rules we approved of beforehand; if you cannot read, ask around. Watch out for our little spiders; with that being said, welcome to the Shem Den!"
Disturbed by that last line knowing how lethal even young blood spiders can be, the four men, named Li, Al, Nick and Will, have their only bag and pockets checked before walking into the settlement. The lengthy alley welcoming them begins with low-roofed, sand-covered buildings seemingly full of guards on both sides; most of the alley however is full of shops selling a wide variety of goods, their storefronts lined up with stalls. Besides ample clothes, the main fashion accessory here is worn by almost every local: a turban of various lengths and shapes, some so intricately wrapped it can be called a tagelmust.
Taking on the hint of the young guard at the entrance, Al and Will step up to a stall and spend some time talking with the owner before purchasing some turbans for themselves, while the sun is setting. The two others watch the layout of the area; the alley only has a single street connected to it, halfway to their left where countless animal noises come from, caravaneers leading into and out of it their beasts of burden. The remainder of the alley itself opens up on a large round plaza, lined up with even more stalls and yells coming from merchants; its center is a small pond, one of the several symbols which gave half of the name to the organization. What catches the eye the most is not the merchants themselves, but their colourful stalls which despite the omnipresent sand, lure attention and break the ever-present reddish hue of the area. Coming from the north, they can see four other exits to the plaza, one of them especially overcrowded.
After their short observation, Nick and Li rejoin the two others, picking up the conversation right when it was getting interesting:
- "...you'll be arriving at the merchants' plaza, though at this time of day activity will be dying down. All streets are marked but with 7000 cats to spend for all four of you, only the eastern one going into the modest quarter will be of interest: its businesses are the only ones you can afford with so little! No offense meant, but it takes at least 5000 cats per head to even consider following the crowd to the southwest, where you'll find the entertainment district - the largest, most visited place. Double that amount to be welcome anywhere in there. Anyway, forget the two other streets; to the southeast, you'll find the residential quarter where we live, nothing worth your time, whereas the northwestern is restricted by invitations. It's the real deal, the quarter of debauchery, but guards will shove you away if you do not have one on hand - and that's on a good day, otherwise you're in for a beating!"
Wealth indeed largely determines which way to go in this place. Disappointed at being reminded they're paupers even here, the group heads into the eastern street to the modest quarter, remarking many smaller alleys -corridors, really- branching out from the main artery, too daunting to look any welcoming. Reaching another plaza with a large pond in its center, surrounded by fences behind which many cacti grow, far fewer stalls are in sight and only already closed buildings can be seen. Still following the road east, the ambience starts to shift and finally looks like an entertainment district, as more guards with gloomy faces roam the area, dragging away one drunkard from a shady corridor or another debtor from a gambling den. Sounds of cheering and laughter become audible as they enter a new plaza, once more around a pond of water where several inns welcome them; booking a room for four for the night, the steep cost of 2000 cats is justified by the innkeeper as the "price for safety, if you don't want to be picked up by the Guard as a troublemaker in your sleep, or by shady drifters roaming the alleys"!
Learning from that same cats-hungry innkeeper how to navigate further into the modest quarter, the group finds its way to a bar recommended as "decent, with edible food". As night finally falls and its chill can be felt outside, the area keeps filling up with patrons, each chatting louder than the next around some grub to fill their empty stomachs. The colourful impression from the merchants' plaza is clearly lost in this quarter, but the lights keep attracting customers like moths to a flame, while the sign at the entrance promises a musical show for tonight - as long as a tip is left to the performers. Now aware of the costs and giving up on any lustful intentions for the night, the group seats at a table shared with an odd pair of a shek and a hiver, too busy talking between them to return more than a simple greeting. The bar owner approaches them:
- "So, what will it be tonight? We've just had a fresh shipment of goat meat today, guaranteed free of maggots so far!"
Ordering a round of rice imported from the Swamp with a few slices of goat meat, and enough cactus rum as well as cheap sake to call it an enjoyable night, the group starts to settle in this surprisingly cozy ambience, too dark to notice the questionable stains on the walls or wooden panels (more like, planks salvaged who-knows-where) creating a fake sense of privacy here and there with the next tables. The central stage is visible from everywhere; the music is rather ordinary from these surroundings, as they could listen to something similar from nomadic performers back in Clownsteady where the four of them were still working recently, crafting all sorts of cheap wares such as the clay plates in which their food is served. Still longing for information for their next visit, asking the bar owner, he beckons over someone then yells:
- "Bo, come over here, kiddo! Entertain these guests' curiosity and don't forget your informant fee, will you?"
A scorchlander kid, barely old enough to hold a tray and serve tables, teeters over with a large smile missing several teeth, like any growing kid his age. Sitting at the table with the four artisans, the bar owner returns shortly after with a plate of more rice for the kid before heading to other tables, leaving with a "today's rate is 500 cats for half an hour of information". Visibly hungry, the brat plunges his hand without reserve in his plate, filling his mouth without a care in the world, amusing the shek-hiver pair who fell silent for a brief moment. Knowing the clock to be ticking, Al starts by confirming the estimations he learned earlier with the merchant, hoping for a good surprise - to no avail. Nick, more worried about the guard's warning, refers to the young spiders to which the little one replies:
- "Tha'z us, actually. Grown-ups call us spiders because we know our way through each and every alley, sneak under the many stalls, and the older kids even walk the roofs to visit other quarters. Sometimes merchants just shoo us away or hit us, but many actually ask us for information on their competitors, with info about the full-fledged shops bringing the most cats. Me, I'm too bad at sneaking but I can help Ma' at the bar, she got wounded by a shitty customer and nobody wants to purchase her anymore, but I get to eat almost everyday now!"
Disturbed by hearing a kid referring so crudely to his mother, further talks let the group understand who mostly resides and works in the "modest quarter". Apart from small-time merchants in their shops, most men work the farms or intimidate careless visitors, most women craft cheap wares or sell their own meat where cannibalism is forbidden, and most children are "incidents" from the job in a place where contraceptives do not exist, and where abortion remains either debilitating, either lethal in most cases. Feeling ordinary morals do not mean anything here, the remainder of the time is spent asking recommendable businesses around, covering all range of vices they can think of - to which the kid reveals himself as a surprisingly knowledgeable informant. Then again, such is this settlement. The child now leaving the table, the group keeps drinking slowly, as the noise around lowers much like the lights in the bar; the main performance of the night gets on.
It is in no way however a great show: the group on stage actually performs some storytelling in the nomadic style, retelling tales supposed to feed the imagination. Sadly, it takes no learned amateur to tell the storyteller is trying too hard at sounding epic, ruining the tale of a child born by a river holding a blood clot in his hand, meant to conquer the land. Amidst all the chattering, laughing, and belching in the room, it simply sounds out of place. The musician playing the bone flute makes too many shrill sounds breaking the ambience, whereas the one striking the drums seems bored out of his mind. If anything, the only redeeming feature is the incredible performance made by the throat singer, transporting the audience through echoes reminding distant valleys never seen, whistling like birds flying in imaginative lush forests. After a good hour or so, the show ends with some reserved applause, and comparatively reserved tips.
Leaving the bar, Will is the only one wobbling left and right amongst them, too hammered to show his usual restraint. Keeping him close to them, the remainder of the group walks on towards the establishments of pleasure they longed for, yet cannot afford tonight. With the low lights and thick pastes hiding the wreckles, the rashes and other bruises, it all looks like a land of wonders to the unaccustomed eye, window shopping from afar. If visibility was given attention, clearly, soundproofing isn't the priority in this area. Though their drinks keep them warm in the desert night, fatigue starts hitting them from the lengthy, dangerous walk they did to arrive there; heading thus back to the inn, all four of them go to sleep in beds that definitely have seen their share of customers from the smell.
The next morning meets them with a slight headache. Li, whom awoke first, shakes and wakes up Al and Nick, yelling a single sentence that quickly brings them to their senses:
- "Will has been taken by the Guard last night!"
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