The Priesthood

It was like trying to run against the stream or against the wind, for there seemed to be no end to the migration of people on the streets of N’Sharan. He could barely look around and truly observe his surroundings, since if he stopped moving, then the crowd would force him to move with it. One man could not stop the flow of people, like one man swimming in a channel would not block it—the water would still keep flowing and the approaching boat would crush him either way.

It was a morbid picture, but one that could happen to him, as he heard of people who had died in stampedes. Mind you, those stampedes were caused by people and with people. Getting crushed by another person was not on his list today, so he kept the pace of the crowd and continued to find his way in this labyrinth of a city.

If he would close his eyes, then he could believe that he would be in the streets of Lo’ Gran during a festival. Eyes open, that was nigh impossible, for every face that he saw had a different variance of scales, of different colors and shapes. Truly, there was not a single human in this crowd. And if he were to look in a mirror, there would be another scaley face to greet him.

That did not matter, for he felt the same as he always did. Only that which was outside was different. And the things that were outside of him didn’t truly matter as much as the things that were within. That was, of course, related only to things like his physical appearance; everything else that was outside was filled with meaning. Other people were outside; they all were, but what mattered the most was what he thought of those people and what those people thought of him.

If, in his eyes, those people were nothing as well, then he’d be a greater fool than what he thought of himself already. Each life had meaning to it; people were meaningful, even if they found it difficult to see it for themselves. There’d always be someone who’d be sad for your departure; there’d be someone who’d laugh with you at the follies of life; and there’d always be those who’d cry with you at those same follies.

One just had to be brave enough to seek those people. Some were lucky to be born with such people around. Some had already found such people. Some might never find them, yet that would not mean that those people would not exist.

The world was funny in that way. It rarely gives anything with or without a reason; things just happen, as long as they can happen.

But here, no matter how much he’d scream at those who were around him, he would go unnoticed. No matter how he’d pull at the sleeve of another, he’d still be left unnoticed. The reason for this was unknown. It was as if only those that were “important” to finding the truth could be interacted with. As if the many people who were part of this great wave weren’t people who were truly remembered.

After all, this dream was constructed from the memories of those who built the prison that it guards.

There was no need to speak to any of them—he'd never be lost. He knew exactly where he had to go to receive the information he sought.

Slowly, the District of Gold changed; it could be seen everywhere. The people and what they wore, the buildings—how well they were maintained, and how extravagant their facades were or weren't—in practically everything.

The District of Silver is where he soon found himself. It was a place for those who were slightly lower in the hierarchy of the city and its population. This was where most lived. Most people who lived here lived in these districts that were meant for the middle class. The districts of Bronze and Iron were similar in that manner, though their purposes were slightly different. The District of Bronze was for factories that didn’t use magic as a primary source of energy, and the District of Iron had factories that did use magic as their primary energy.

Thus, the people who worked in them had to have a certain level of magical ability to be able to work in such factories. There, they were paid much better, but the life expectancy wasn’t much greater than in the lower-tier factories.

Such factories produced a plethora of different things, mainly materials and parts to things; such things would then be sent to the District of Silver, where the skilled artisans of the city mainly dwelled with their workshops and shops.

In a way, each district supported each other, and each district would, to a differing degree, benefit more or less from that support. But those who lived in the District of Gold would always benefit the most, for there lived those who owned the factories and even monetarily supported the many artisans of the District of Silver.

The District of Copper was different. The living conditions weren’t that great, and the quality of air was the worst in the whole city. It became more apparent as Kanrel approached it after about an hour of walking.

The District of Copper was built on top of a mine, so one had to go downhill several meters to have access to it, and the hole that was once a mine was quite deep—over a hundred meters they had dug down—and now that area was densely populated with small huts and buildings that could barely be called houses.

At first, the streets were paved, but as he went deeper and as the air got more dirty, so did the earth. The ground was just earth, sometimes with pockets of stone and such, but mostly just earth. And that earth, when kicked around, created dust, which then flew into the air, worsening the already terrible quality of air in this part of the city.

And the deeper one went, the more the city walls would tower over you. The eastern wall was the one that towered over them, and it was the only thing keeping the ocean on the other side at bay.

The city was built near the coast, and the magi reclaimed a part of the sea to build their magnificent city. At first, there was no mine, but when they found valuable ore—copper, to be precise—they started a mine and dug it all out of the ground, and when the mine was no longer functional and without real purpose, instead of filling it back up, they decided that the people should build their homes on the slopes of the mine, giving birth to the aptly named District of Copper.

Halfway down the slope, he had finally reached a section of the district that was called Olruan Street, which was called their home street by the twenty or so buildings and the people who lived in said buildings. It was also the place where Wiltem Torna met their demise.

It was a cramped area, but so was everything else about the district. Dirty? Yes. With poor air quality? Absolutely. Yet… He could see children kicking around a ball in a small area that was left in the middle of all these buildings.

They didn’t seem to care about what had happened here or whose body lay on that very ground not too long ago. For them, only that ball mattered—the fun they could have with that barely inflated thing. There was nothing wrong with it, but any signs of a crime scene were long gone now.

He went deeper into the cramped neighborhood and looked for a building that would be the bakery where the suspect had worked. As he went ahead, the children gave him no regard, even when it made sense for them to do so. Seldom would they see people who wore things that were worth more in gold than all of their neighborhood combined.

He walked into an alley where there were clothes hanging over him and a smell of freshly baked bread—a smell that could pierce through the other smells of the city it inhabited. Even with their child in custody, they had to work. They couldn't afford to abandon the only source of their income. Before him was a bakery, one that was not larger than the houses around, and when he went inside, it was clear that the bakery was only really the kitchen of a normal house but used for selling baked goods, mainly just different kinds of bread, as it was perhaps the only thing they could afford to make.

With their backs against the door, a person worked dough on a table that wasn’t too far away from the only oven in the house. Next to the door there was a long table that reached the westernmost corner of the room, and on it, there were multiple baskets that were covered by cloth; beneath them most likely were all kinds of breads for any eager customer to buy.

He stepped further in and edged his way a little closer to the person who seemed to only care about the dough they kneaded, and when he got close enough, he could see the face of the person. Their wrinkled face, which had only the faintest amount of scales on them, and their gray eyes seemed dull as if their mind wasn’t in this world to inhabit but instead somewhere else, deep within their own thoughts.

They had no smile to offer and no words to give, not in this trance of thought and work that they focused on. The person had strong arms that were accustomed to such work; kneading dough was by no means easy work, for it required skill and just enough strength to become something more than a failed baking endeavor of a hobbyist.

These were the hands of a skilled baker at work. Kanrel observed as they added more flour to their dough, kneaded it some more, and soon made it into a ball, which they covered with a cloth. Under it, the dough would rise and double in size. They then wiped their hands onto another cloth and turned toward Kanrel, who had observed closely each and every action that they had taken.

“Can I help you?” asked a tired voice, one that held sorrow in it, one that perhaps only a parent could have in a situation like this. Their clothes were covered with flour, as was their apron, which at least kept the flour from getting on the front of their shirt and pants.

What was there for him to ask? Could he introduce himself in an inoffensive manner? Perhaps, but did he really have to be subtle when talking to a memory? Even when he could recognize that they were just that—a memory—even then he felt like he should honor someone who had found themselves in a situation that was frankly more than unfair. He lacked the guts to ask for the facts.

"I just wanted to buy some bread,” he lied—this was the only thing he had the guts to do. He looked past the person in front of him at the oven that was ablaze but had nothing in it other than wood for the fire to eat.

The person slowly scanned him, head to toe, and slightly tilted their head. “You’d have me believe that someone—anyone—with attire like yours comes here just for bread." The person scoffed, “Just ask your questions and leave; don’t waste my time just because you can."

Kanrel again met their eyes; there was some hostility in them, and it was obvious that this wasn’t the first time that someone with "attire like his" had come here, with insensitive questions and perhaps even blame toward the parent of a murder suspect.

He exhaled and asked what he had come here to ask: “Is there anything that you can tell me about your child—anything at all, be it about their personality, the things they liked, the friends they had... Anything.”

There it was. Silence. Perhaps one caused by the expected yet unexpected question asked, the emotions it might bring up, or the answer that they might give. A silence most uncomfortable, broken by only a simple thing:

A sigh.

They turned back toward their dough and the oven that was not too far away from them. “Do you want me to tell you all there is to know about Har? And for what reason? The previous person who asked me a question like that wrote an article only to ridicule him and blame him for everything that happened.

“If I, to you, do the same courtesy as to them, would it change anything? Would it end injustice? Would it bring Har back home?”

They turned around; their brows were fully furrowed, and wrinkles on their face were more apparent than before. “I should’ve just given you the bread and told you to piss off…” They said, and then their expression slightly softened, “Take a chair—a piece of paper or something; this will take a while, you know..."

“A snooping bastard you are—you and the whole lot…” They muttered under their breath and, from around the table, brought two chairs and placed them across each other. They gestured for Kanrel to sit on the other as they sat down as well.

Kanrel had nothing to write on, so he would have to try to remember anything at all that he could. He sat down, feeling relieved. All of this could have ended horribly. The person that now sat across him and the questions that they had asked gave him already much to wonder about, but he couldn't humor such questions for now.