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OPTION 1:
BOOKWORM
COIN
The 21st of March, ANNO MDCCLXXIV AB GENETRICVM DESCENSIONE
Smælldenn , Duchy of Almera
Smælldenn — that"s the name of a burg in the easternmost corner of the Duchy of Almera, amidst the rust-coloured clay hillocks, near a small shallow river, the Serpentyne. Instead of a fortress wall, the burg is surrounded by an earthen rampart with a picket fence on top — rather for appearance"s sake than for real protection. The gate tower is built of logs — durable, large and low, like a sitting boar. The gateway is wide open, two spearmen are jabbering in the shade, amicably casting glances at the wayfarers passing by. Smælldenn welcomes visitors, particularly on market days.
A cobblestone road starts right from the square beyond the gates leading inwards, gradually rising up the main hill in the centre. The pavement jollily echoes the clattering horseshoes and rumbling rims of waggon wheels. The pisé and wooden houses stand fairly detached from each other, with enough room for courtyards and alleyways. Some laundry is hung on the clotheslines, a few geese are proudly waddling along the roadside; a grimy lad with an air of seriousness is sitting on the porch step of a house and a ginger cat can be seen sitting in the sun a little further down. People are flocking to the centre, to the Market Square, crowded together as they go along the road, talking, shouting and ranting noisily. Closer to the cathedral and higher up the hill, more and more houses appear, made of stone and as if having grown two floors high. A copper jug is swaying over the entrance of an inn, a pretzel made of tin follows suit a bit farther, likewise a shoe opposite. Through the temptingly open oaken door of a cellar, one can smell the sour spirit of some disgusting locally made wine.
The cathedral in Smælldenn is huge, majestic and ugly. Harmon has long made this observation: the smaller the burg, the larger the cathedral. Towns and cities deprived of beauty and glory do not spare money for the temple — their only pride. In Harmon"s view, it"s a complete waste: there is no way one can hope to amaze the visiting nobles with that, whereas the Holy Genetrices (Foremothers), who went to their final resting place some seventeen centuries ago, would hardly give a damn about the size of the edifice. The southern façade of the cathedral was still covered in scaffolding, the yet unfinished twig-looking tower piercing the sky, whereas the northern part magnificently towered over the Market Square. A whole block of houses found shelter in its shadow. The copper disk with the Sacred Spiral above the doorway was the size of a windmill, the singing pipes encircling the top of the tower shone like diamonds in the sun. They were blaring the Sunday morning chant, which made it feel like the wind was solemnly howling over Smælldenn.
The Market Square was crowded. Hawkers had set up their trays and carts around the square, attracting maybe half of the onlookers, the other half herding towards the centre, surrounding the stage and the tent of actors. It was here, on the Smælldenn burg Market Square, that Harmon Paula Roger decided to hire a new guard.
OPTION 2:
CYRILL
THE COIN
March 21, 1774 from the Descension of the Foremothers
Smallden, duchy of Almera
Smallden is the name of a town in the far east of the duchy of Almera, near the skinny Snaky river, between red-clay hills. In lieu of a wall, the town is surrounded with an earthen rampart with a palisade on top; put up rather to keep appearances than for real protection. The gatehouse, built of rough-cut logs, is sturdy, squat and stocky, like a boar sitting on its haunches. The gate is open wide. Two spearmen wag their tongues in the shadow, casting amicable glances at passers-by. Smallden always welcomes visitors, especially on market days.
A paved road runs deep into the town from the Gate square. Horseshoes clanking and wagon wheels rattling, it slowly climbs up the hill in the town center. The mudbrick and wooden huts are placed sparsely, living plenty of space for backyards and alleyways. Linens hang from clotheslines, drying in the morning sun; geese parade along roadsides, proudly puffing their chests. A dingy urchin is sitting pensively at a front porch; a red cat is eyeing the wagons from the next one. People flock to the center, to the Market Square, crowding together into small groups and trading noisy remarks as they go. As the road moves up the hill and closer to the cathedral, the clay and wooden huts give way to stone, two-storey houses. A sign, shaped like a copper jug, is creaking in the breeze over a door, followed by a brass pretzel and a shoe across the street. A watering hole, its oaken door opened enticingly, emanates a sour odor of the lousy local wine.
The Smallden cathedral is huge, imposing — and ugly. Kharmon had long noticed: the smaller a town, the larger its cathedral. Towns which can boast neither splendor nor glory open their wallets wide for their temples — the only thing they can take pride in. A waste of money, if you ask Kharmon: the visiting nobles will not be impressed, and the Holy Foremothers themselves, who passed away seventeen centuries ago, most likely don't care two straws about the size of a temple. The southern face of the cathedral was still covered in scaffolding, the gnarly unfinished tower sticking into the skies. The northern face, however, towered majestically over the Market Square. Its shadow smothered an entire block of houses. A copper Holy Spiral disc, perched above the portal, was the size of a windmill's sail; the singing pipes, wound around the tower-top, shone in the sun like diamonds. They were trumpeting the Sunday morning hymn, it sounded like the wind howling triumphantly over Smallden.
The Market Square was packed. Merchants put up their stalls and wagons along the edges of the square, drawing half the crowd. The other half flocked to the center, around the platform and the mummers' tent. It was here, in the Smallden town's Market Square, that Kharmon Paula Roger decided to hire a new bodyguard.
The crowd was guffawing, hooting and hollering. Kharmon loved crowds: he felt warm and merry when surrounded by people; it also made him better at thinking. Having come late, Kharmon hung around in the back, thinking about Doxet — the old soldier who had served as his bodyguard for fifteen years. Yesterday, at the inn, Doxet came up to Kharmon and sang in a syrupy voice:
"Master, it is time, ain't it... I've served and served you, master... haven't I earned something?"
Kharmon gave him a couple of silver agates. That was a mistake. A couple agates was almost a fortune, as far as Doxet was concerned. The old man-at-arms shoved one coin into his boot. The second, however... This was a whole agate, and moreso, a second one! It was practically burning a hole in Doxet's pocket. To cut a long story short, this morning they found Doxet blissfully sleeping on the road near the inn's doors; braving a three-step ascent was clearly beyond him. Snipe, Whirly, a stableboy and Kharmon himself took turns trying to wake the bodyguard. Kharmon's attempt was the most successful: when he poured a bucket of water over Doxet's head, the soldier rolled onto his back, rubbed his eye, opened it, bleated "M-maaaster..." — and was asleep again.
OPTION 3:
VANAN AC
COIN
March 21, 1774 from the Descent of the Foremothers Smolden, Duchy of Almer
Smolden — this is the name of the town in the east of the Duchy of Almer, among the red clay hills, at the skinny small Snake river. Instead of a fortress wall, the city is surrounded by an earthen rampart with a picket fence on top — more for order than for protection. The gate tower is felled from logs — solid, wide, squat, like a boar sitting on the clod. The gates are wide open, two lancers actively communicate in the shade, peacefully glance at the travelers. Smolden welcomes visitors, especially on market days. From the Gateway Square begins the pavement. Ringing horseshoes and rumbling rims, it leads into the interior of the town, gradually climbing up the central hill. Adobe and wooden houses stand apart, there is enough space for courtyards and alleys. Linen dries on ropes, geese march along the curb; here on the approach at the entrance sits a serious grimy boy, there is a red cat. People flock to the center, to the Market Square, on the road huddling together, talking noisily. Closer to the cathedral and higher up the hill, the houses become stone, growing to two floors. A copper jug sways above the entrance of one, a tin pretzel is far away, on the contrary is a shoe. From the cellar, which temptingly opened the oak door, carries the sour spirit of the vile local wine. The cathedral in Smolden is huge, heavy and malformed. Harmon has long noticed: the smaller the city, the larger the cathedral. Cities deprived of beauty and glory do not spare money for the temple — their only object of pride. According to Harmon, it"s a waste: you can"t surprise the visiting nobles with this, and the Holy Foremothers, who died seventeen centuries ago, probably do not care about the size of the temple. The south facade of the cathedral stood in the woods, and the unfinished tower knotted protrudingly into the sky, but the north tower towered over the Market Square with a majestic mass. A whole block was located in the shadow of it. The copper disk with the Sacred Spiral above the portal was the size of a windmill, the singing pipes encircling the top of the tower shone like diamonds under the sun. They brought out the song of Sunday morning, and it seemed that the wind was howling solemnly over Smolden. The Market Square was full of people. Along the edges of the square, trays and carts of merchants unfolded, pulling together half the crowd, the other half crowded into the center, surrounded by a platform and a tent of hypocrites. It was here, in the Market Square of Smolden, Harmon Paula Roger decided to hire a new security guard. The crowd cackled, whistled, shouted. Harmon loved the crowd: among the people he felt warm and fun, and also — well thought. Arriving late, he rubbed himself in the back rows and thought about Doxet, the old soldier, who had served Harmon as a guard for fifteen years. Yesterday, in the courtyard, Doxet walked up to Harmon and sang with chrism in his voice: — Master, the time has come... I serve you, I serve, master... and did I deserve something, huh? Harmon gave him a pair of silver agate, and that was a mistake. A pair of agate is almost wealth, by the Doxet"s standards.
OPTION 4:
VANAN OG
THE COIN
March 21, 1774, of the Descent of the Foremothers. Smallden, Duchy of Almer.
Smallden is the name of a town in the east of the Duchy of Almer, among red clay hills, by the thin river Snaky. Instead of a fortress wall, the town is surrounded by an earth rampart with a picket fence on top, for order rather than protection. The gate tower is cut from logs — a good, wide, squat, like a boar sitting on its bottom. The gate is wide open, two gate-keepers jibber-jabber in the shade, peacefully watching the travelers. Smallden welcomes newcomers, especially on market days.
From Gate Square the bridge begins. With the clatter of horseshoes and pounding rims, the road leads into town, gradually climbing the central hill. The mud and wooden houses are not too close to each other, there is enough space for patios and alleys. Linen dries on the ropes, geese waddle along the side of the road, a serious grimy boy sits at one of the entrances, a red cat at the other. People flock to the center, to Market Square, bunching up on the way, talking loudly. Closer to the cathedral and up the hill, the houses are stone, and up to two floors. A copper pitcher swings above the entrance of one house a tin pretzel from the other, and a shoe — from the opposite one. From the cellar, where the oak door was temptingly opened, came the sour scent of the nasty local wine.
The cathedral in Smallden is colossal, mighty and ugly. Harmon has long noticed that the smaller the town, the larger the cathedral. Towns lacking in beauty and glory do not spare money for the temple, the only thing to be proud of. Harmon thought it was a waste of money, it was no big wonder for visiting noblemen, and the holy Foremothers who reposed seventeen centuries ago probably won't care about the size of the temple. The southern facade of the cathedral was scaffolded and the unfinished tower was sticking out into the sky, but the northern one"s majestic pile towered over the Market Square and covered a whole block with its shade. The copper disk with the Sacred Spiral above the portal was the size of a windmill, the singing pipes oiling around the top of the tower shone like diamonds in the sun. They chanted a Sunday morning song, and the wind seemed to be howling solemnly above Smallden.
The market square was packed. Along the edges of the square the vendors placed their stalls and carts pulling half of the crowd, the other half crowded in the center, surrounded the platform and the show booth. It was here, on Smallden's Market Square, that Harmon Paula Roger decided to hire a new guard.
The crowd was cackling, whistling, and hooting. Harmon loved crowds, being among people felt warm and fun, and he could think clearly there too. Having come late, he was hanging around in the back rows and thought about Doxett, an old soldier, who for fifteen years has served Harmon as a guard.
Yesterday at the inn, Doxett came up to Harmon and started crooning in an oleaginous voice: — Master, the time has come... I serve you, I serve you, master... I've earned something, eh?
Harmon gave him a pair of silver agates, and that was a mistake. A pair of agates is almost a fortune, by Doxett's standards. One coin the old hand hid in his boot, but the other, the other...
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