COLD FORTUNE

Once, the lands of Albion were filled with wild things. Its many forests were lush and countless and came with a guarantee that some of those who wandered too far off the path would never come back. Humanity gathered in tight communities that dotted the land and burned silver nitrate at the gates to keep the terrible beasts with claws and teeth at bay.
It was a world of mystery and ancient magic that bled through every crevice and brook. The rise and fall of an archaic race is written in every part of the land, read in the stones of broken ruins that grow untamed bramble and oak.

There were few who could traverse the wild country unharmed but they existed. Only shadowed rumors accounted for their heritage. Some said the bloodline of the Ancients ran through their veins, granting them abilities beyond those of a mere mortal and without them humanity would have found itself on the short end of extinction.

The blessed few sons and daughters of Albion gathered to learn their skills at the greatest academy ever imagined. To be considered a student of the Heroes' Guild was a guarantee of strength, speed and command over the ever mysterious Will which was domination over the elements and stuff that made up time and space.

They tamed the wild nature of Albion, with sword, arrow and Will and became legends among men. At the very height of the age of Heroes there was rumor of a Hero so powerful the terrible immortal destroyer Jack of Blades fell by his hand and the world trembled under their battle.

This is Albion under the weight of time; the land has been worn with the progress of man, cities abound where there were only towns and now it is a topographical patchwork where the march of innovation and the dug-in heels of tradition live side by side.
Only the few still-wild places carry danger to the unwary; the deep overrun forests that hide creatures of a dark nature, the forgotten temple ruins that have long since lost their name and purpose and the places touched by magic so ancient and powerful no man's hand may tame it.

Progress marched forward and bloodshed followed. The people rose up against the Heroes, driven by fear and paranoia with the proclamation that Albion had no more need of them. The Guild fell, the Heroes dispersed, some slaughtered, some blending into the background of normalcy. An age passed, legends became stories and Heroes were forgotten.

Now we are in Modern times and dark events are on the horizon. Where are the Heroes now?

In the bustling streets of Bowerstone life marched over worn cobblestones and hammered out a beat that defied the harshness of the world that surrounded it. It wasn't a bad life; most of the inhabitants of that sprawling ancient city had lived in those primeval walls for countless generations and were satisfied at playing cosmopolitan to the rougher, smaller provinces of Albion. When life had a bakery, tavern and black smith all in one conveniently located area one did not wonder what lay outside the stone fortifications that guarded the city. Outside lay uncertainty; of bandits and rogues, unnatural and vicious creatures and adventure. Bowerstonians held their noses up at such ridiculous notions.

Less fortunate citizens find themselves in an equally dangerous and not-so-cosmopolitan district of Bowerstone Old Town that lay at the base of Castle Fairfax. That massive structure was of improbable proportions and it cast an almost permanent shadow over the oldest and most debilitated area of Bowerstone. Here are the cast-offs of humanity; the poor, the criminal, the mad.

It is in a relatively quiet and clean corner of Old Town where two children huddle over a single brazier, desperate for warmth on a cold winter's day. Both girls are pitiably young and alone; it has been a terrible few years losing both parents and home and all certainty. Rose is the eldest. She remembers best the small farm cottage and idyllic life in a country setting. She is doing what she can with ragged clothing and little food and an entire winter to endure and provide for a younger sibling. Beside her is Sparrow. It wasn't the name her parents had given her but she barely remembers them and Rose has been mother, father and provider so Sparrow she gladly answers to.

Surviving life in the roughest part of the city had been an education that taught hands to be quick and unseen and sharpened eyes to see danger approaching. Rose had already witnessed what happened to children who weren't as lucky and knew all it took was a single mistake. People whispered folklore that outside the walls it was malevolent spirits who took children and turned them into the ugly, unnatural hobbes that attacked unwary travelers but inside the gates Rose knew the greatest danger was her fellow human being.

Time wasn't on her side; she was soon leaving behind childhood, her body already budding small breasts and rounded hips that would shortly force her to make a terrible choice. Two years living in squalor and destitution left no doubts about the reality of being female and powerless.
She might not have cared so much, would have been glad to take to open roads and join the tinkerers and merchants who traveled Albion if had not been for one precious reason.

She glanced fondly at the bird-frail thin figure of Sparrow who scowled as she rubbed her hands vigorously over the fire, dark eyes brightly reflected in the flames. Sparrow had adjusted to the life of a street urchin with far greater ease than Rose. Her short russet hair pushed back into a messy tail, Sparrow wore the bright ragged pieces of clothing like a heathen warrior or vagabond gypsy. The small girl had even recently taken to wearing a wooden sword and pea-shooting replica of the latest repeating firearm they had occasion to see fine gentlemen wearing in Bowerstone Square. Rose didn't ask how Sparrow came across those items; honor and morality became harder when survival was in question.

Rose clung to the teachings of her father, a bear of a man who scraped a living off the flat hills that lay far outside Bowerstone. He had been a good-natured and brash man who was a favorite at the tavern because of his willingness to share coin for those in need and for his gentle strength that ended brawls before the furniture suffered.

He had ingrained a sense of justice in Rose, had been fair minded and calm as her mother was sharp tongued and hot tempered. The circumstance under their deaths was murky; one night a traveling trader on friendly terms with the family had simply gathered Rose and Sparrow from their tiny cottage and whisked them away. Rose remembers watching the glow of the fire of the family cottage, could see the smoke rise into the breaking dawn as they entered the gates of Bowerstone.

Rose sighed and looked up, reluctant to return to cold reality. Castle Fairfax was dusted with a layer of snow making it beautiful as a picture. The newly fallen snow laid the entire city in a temporary pristine blanket of white. She turned to her sister.

"Look, little Sparrow; Castle Fairfax looks so nice in the snow. Imagine the grand dining hall! I bet Lord Lucien's having roast duck this time of year-"

"Instead of old potatoes an' stale bread?", came a grumbled response. Rose ignored the tone and went on, " but he must be pretty lonely now that his wife and little girl died. All alone…in that great big castle. I wish we could live there."

Sparrow gazed up at Rose wisely not saying anything. Rose hadn't lost the ability to dream just as Sparrow had already learned hard-headed pragmatism. She didn't mind; when it came her turn she bet she could fend off unwanted attention pretty well with that wooden sword. She already had given Freddy the Fingers something to think about when she stuck it in his unmentionables the other day for calling Rose a two-bit gutter-snipe. Sparrow didn't actually know what that meant but the look of red-faced humiliation on Rose's face had been enough for her to dole out punishment.

The sound of jeering and cheers broke over the silence of Rose's daydreaming and the crackling of the fire.

"What is going on over there?" , she wondered aloud. The temptation of diversion was too much to contain and Rose turned to Sparrow with a grin.

"Come with me, Sis!"

As with any good Bowerstone city dweller the promise of an amusing distraction, whether a legitimate puppet theatre or watching the bar keep toss drunks into the gutter, gathered both children and adults to watch.

Sparrow raced after her longer-legged sister, happy to be thinking of something other than cold and hunger.

She jumped over carelessly thrown debris and dodged crates and water barrels through high walled alley ways. The city had been thrown together like a crazy quilt of architecture. Decades and centuries of adding on, shoring up and use of creative material had turned the oldest part of Bowerstone into a maze of alley ways, multi-storied homes and convenient hidey holes that made it so popular for the criminal class.

Sparrow grinned with home-advantage pride of knowing nearly all of them.

They had just about found the source of the noise when Rose's abrupt stop caused Sparrow to run into her and almost fall over. Words that would have gotten her mouth washed out hovered on her lips as she looked up to see an oily figure glide out of the shadows.

No citizen of Old Town could walk the street without knowing the name Nicky 'the Nickname' Chalmers. For all the terrible skill he had at epitaphs he made up for in rodent viciousness and innate ability to have all the Bowerstone criminals under his thumb. And here stood his right arm, Arfur; all slouched wickedness, bad fashion sense and opportunistic malice.
He put a shoulder against brick wall and hitched what he thought to be an inviting smile on his unshaved, dirty face.

" 'Ello, Rose. You look…hungry. Thought about my offer?", he leered, dark eyes narrow and eager.

Sparrow could see the line of tension in her sister's face and felt her hackles rise at words left unsaid. Arfur's gaze was hungry in a way that reminded her of a drunkard eyeing the last drop of ale and it brought forth a terrible desire to wreak violence on his person.

Rose straightened her back and pushed Sparrow behind her, knowing her well-intentioned little sister would be stupid, or brave, enough to try and stick her wooden sword somewhere objectionable.

"We'll never be that hungry," she said flatly "the answer is no."

Arfur's greasy smile slid off his face as his jowls darkened with anger. "You'll be back," he hissed "and I'll be waitin' for ya."

Rose grabbed Sparrow by the wrist and stiffly marched past Arfur without looking at him while darkly muttering to herself, "That filthy creep. I hate him." She didn't need him to tell her options were running out and starvation a real possibility.

Sparrow trotted alongside her and said breathlessly, "You should've let me-"

"No!"

"But I could've-"

"Forget it, little Sparrow. Let me handle it." Desperate for a distraction Rose cajoled, "Come on, let's see what's going on."

Outside the stone gateway that sectioned off Old Town from the brighter, cleaner Bowerstone was a small plaza where a few dozen people crowded next a brightly painted caravan. The side had been opened to reveal a jumble of objects, large and small. A wooden sign hung crookedly that read MYSTICAL MURGO. Like the worn merchandise and once bright sign that advertised his goods Murgo was slightly frayed around the edges; stout and rounded with patchy clothing and a balding top hat set at a jaunty angle.
It wasn't that he was dishonest, just honestly interested in money and without many qualms about getting said money. And like most of the well-traveled traders he knew salesmanship was a matter of showmanship. His voice boomed over the crowd.

"Step UP, step UP! Gather 'round for the sale of the century! Objects from near and far for a mere five gold!" Here he made a swooping bow and grabbed a dirty linen sheet off of a tall flat object revealing a dressing mirror.

"Ladies and Gentleman! Consider this: this is truly a magical mirror –" his voice dropped to a hushed whisper, "for as long as you look into it, it will make you beautiful! Restrictions apply, third parties cannot hold first parties responsible for any and all emotional anguish, loss of hearing, baldness and/or sudden acid reflux. All sells final, no refunds. All for the low, low price of five gold! Going once! Going twi-"

"I'll take it!"

"SOLD! To the kind chap in the front! Very wise, sir, very wise. Now remember, it only works in total darkness."

Rose and Sparrow struggled to see the merchant's wares through a sea of heavily bundled bodies.

"I can't see anything past this lot!" complained Rose.

Sparrow drew her wooden sword and looked at Rose with wide innocent looking eyes. Her sister grinned wickedly.

"Yeah, all right. Get us a little closer!"

Murgo continued the sale of the century, ignoring the small sudden commotion and startled yelps from the crowd. He picked up a small angular object.

"Ahhh… now this is truly a marvel; this small unassuming box is actually a device created by the Ancients! As used by the Old Kingdom rulers themselves!"

Sparrow watched, hypnotized, as Murgo held the tarnished metal box up to the midday light. It wasn't much to look at; more of a hexagon than a box, discolored and worn with obvious age. Murgo's voice bounced from one end of her head to the other. The Old Kingdom!

Sparrow looked up to see Rose's face mirror her own feelings; skepticism that warred with the desire to believe.

The Old Kingdom meant magic and Heroes! Bedtime stories and fractured tales of people who once lived in Albion who could do amazing things; giants of men who could swing a twenty stone sword without effort, the Will users who could bend the very elements of nature, sharpshooters who could split an arrow 500 yards away! It was the Heroes that had kept the darker nature of Albion at bay, extraordinary people who had all but been forgotten. The adventurers that made headlines today were but thinned shadows of their past counterparts.

Sparrow swallowed and hung onto Murgo's every word.

"Simply turn this hand three times and you shall be granted a single wish! Restrictions apply, void where necessary, all sells final, no refunds."

The crowd murmured but no money was offered up. Shrugging Murgo moved to the next object.

"Look what we have here! This tasty little object…"

Rose and Sparrow had already turned away as had some of the crowd, chuckling in disbelief.

"There's no such thing as magic!" said Rose reluctantly.

"We live in grim times indeed if the young are too world-weary to believe in magic. What a pity, most children your age believe eagerly."

Sparrow and Rose both jumped as a low and melodious voice answered Rose. The woman who had melted away from the crowd like a wraith stood near the two sisters. Sparrow gaped at her as she was unlike anyone she had ever seen in Old Town.

She was neither young nor old. She wore shabby and patch-worked scarlet clothing and yet she moved with the grace of a queen. Gold bangles and jewelry chimed softly as she came towards them. The woman's head was mostly in shadow as she had a hood pulled over to cover most of her features. As Sparrow studied her unabashedly she felt a little jolt of horror as she realized the woman's eyes bore terrible scars and had long since been sewn shut.

Rose answered her hesitatingly, "Look, I can see your eyes are bad but I'm telling you that music box is rubbish! Nothing but a rusted piece of junk!"

"That's what the seller thinks. He has no idea what he has stumbled upon but you have an inkling, don't you? Some part of you wants to believe its magic."

Rose was silent as emotion struggled over her face. "Wha- you really think it could be…?"

The strange woman turned and slowly started to walk away, answering, baiting, over her shoulder, "For five gold pieces you could have your answer."

"For five gold pieces we could eat for week!" Rose answered tartly.

The woman stopped and turned. Sparrow could feel the presence of the woman, like the weight of a stone over stretched parchment. The burden of her regard was like a pressure that couldn't be ignored; demanding, cold and heavy. The mystery woman was like no one Sparrow had ever met before.

"Listen to me, Rose, at the end of that week you and your little Sparrow would be no closer to your dream, no closer to the inside of that beautiful castle… of course, if a life selling that which you least wish to part with interests you, so be it." and just as mysteriously as she had come the woman vanished into one of the numerous alley ways leaving behind a wake of stunned silence.

"How did she know…?" Rose murmured.

"I think we should do it." stated Sparrow.

Rose didn't answer right away as she took in Sparrow's look of resolution. The strange woman had managed, in the space of mere moments, to nail all of her hopes and fears.
Fear that time was running out, that as crazy as it sounded this might be a ticket out of a life of poverty and misery.
There was no denying the cutting terror that Rose was walking the fine edge of a knife, that in this pivotal moment her decision would decide both of their fates and the choices that lay before her were not very good ones. She knew desperation made a poor companion for making important life choices but if there was even the slightest chance…

She was also certain that somewhere she had heard trusting strange and cloaked women who spouted enigmatic advice concerning magic boxes and wishes should be something to be cautious about.

Rose looked at the trusting and unflinching face of her sister as the face of Arfur floated up in her mind's eye and she repressed a shudder.

"I bet we could get five gold pieces …" she slowly said. Sparrow's mouth stretched into a wicked grin and Rose felt herself unwillingly smile in return.

"And maybe this could be a way out of here, after all! C'mon, little Sparrow! There must be some way we can earn that money."

Rose and Sparrow, hand in hand, turned and raced towards what passed for the district market of Old Town, braced with that most terrible of human emotion; hope.