Couple of homeless guys on a street corner; huddled low in layers of foetid garments against the cold. Not a lot of foot traffic, but what there is comes in a slow but steady stream. Most people ignore the pair: some simply fail to register that they, in fact, do sit on the sidewalk; some speed by, unwilling to make eye contact (unwilling, in fact, to make any human connection to the broken men); some sneer; a few slow to listen, to at least make the effort. Few drop precious coins.

One has a beanie and a round face that has been worn away to a featureless round mass. Robbed even of identity, this man eyes the ungrateful world through eyes that had become screwed up slits. His posture is defensive, wounded, inured to indignity. He looks up with hostility, so broken he can barely make a connection himself with the people who walk on by. He beats an upturned bucket improvised drum with lack lustre intensity and no talent. Been pounding away for hours, stubbornly slamming his fists as he glares at the world, expecting some return for his efforts.

His rival is bareheaded, hair a violent mass of brown. The hard life of the street has not wiped his identity; instead he has gained a feral aspect that exaggerates his features: his eyes spin; a nervous twitch throbs at the corner of his mouth; and he smiles at the world with the intensity of an idiot savant. This man is happy to be alive. So happy, that it scary. Eyes, mouth, old growth whiskers, even the musk of his sweat, they all lend an impression that this man is not quite human. Animal in human guise. You hurry on, lest like an a beaten dog, he turns on you.

This man is trying to be a poet. He is not having much success either. He forgets his lines, misses his beats; his mouth can't quite keep up with the lyrical flow in his mind. He starts laughing. It doesn't help.

  
Date Action Roll Result
2018-01-08 15:46:43 Hector to do poetry on the fly rolls 6 to Wits + Expression (10 Again) 7, 5, 7, 6, 2, 3 failure

Eventually, he sighs and hauls himself up. He pats himself down with nimble fingers encased in fingerless gloves and casts a pitying glance at his companion. There is no one else around now, and the guy is still beating his drum. The drummer returns Hector's stare with something vicious, small, and mean spirited.

"We really need to get better day jobs!" Hector laughs.

The Cahalith turns and walks away, head held high. The street has not broken him. The street can't. He is Farsil Luhal. Iron Master. The street; the city; is is hunting ground. Today it simply taught him another lesson.