The Understreets

Once we got out of the Tower, which was empty, scarily empty, we hit the streets.

The cobbled paving tripped me twice, but i wouldn't stop running. 

The Mainstreets were to dangerous to be on. The City would be gathering in the Centre, ready for the execution. A thought hit me, what would they think when the Bladers brought out two kids. They wouldn't care, they had been told that we were traitors. Traitors to their haven. They would cheer when the trap door flung down.

I dropped down an alley, Nul followed. He was white as a sheet. I should stop, stop, hug him, tell him it will be alright. He knew what he was. But that didn't make it any less frightening. We couldn't stop.

Not now.

Ever.

The Understreets stank. Of ale, and ale after it had been... passed.

The Understreets were the lower class housing, the tight knit shit-brick houses, mixed in with taverns. 

Being a haven, races had fled from all over the world to the City, for protection, then soon they had forgotten why they were there, and just seemed to forget about the lower world. As we ran, we got stares from Orcs, Trolls, Goblins and Serpenkin who lay against walls,  bottles of alcohol in their hands, claws and paws.

The Dagger and Ale came into sight.

This was where the Venturers had held their meetings before they had to move to the sewers.

Of course. The Council knew about this place, but i'm sure they didn't know about the trap door hidden behind a book case in the third room from the back.

I'm sure.

 

The End

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